


Not Yet Into Death, My Dear Bilbo

by Aravis



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff and Angst, Gandalf is having none of your shit Thorin, M/M, Major Character Injury, bagginshield, why did I write this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-23 05:05:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/618417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aravis/pseuds/Aravis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin Oakenshield awakens, having reclaimed Erebor. His sister-sons live, yet there is still something plaguing him; Bilbo Baggins has disappeared, and Gandalf may or may not be planning everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awake

**Author's Note:**

> I seriously don't even understand how I started writing this. All I know is I am shipping everything so hard and couldn't contain myself any longer. Let me know what you think! Also, my first story here on A03, but I have written previously on ffnet under a different name. 
> 
> Expect some angsting and some romancing. I am very much influenced by the fanart all over tumblr and the other fics about courting and such. 
> 
> This fic will most likely be moved up a rating, but for now I'm satisfied here. 
> 
> Stay tuned! 
> 
> p.s. I am patching the crap out of Middle Earth history so if I get some facts wrong let me know and I'll do my best to keep everything as clear as possible! All I can say is I HAVE TRIED.

Thorin Oakenshield woke in stages. At the first, he began to be aware of a distant softness, foreign from months of hard ground and rock as his bed. The second stage, he felt the warmth of a gentle fire, flickering at the foot of the softness supporting him. The third stage, Thorin felt his face, his hands, his feet; all tense and struggle to move. Distinct throbbing and sparking sensations followed his attempts at movement, which he began to understand as pain. The fourth stage finally came, and Thorin opened his eyes, taking in a breath which strained the bindings around his chest. He was terribly wounded, he understood, and kept as still as he was able. He let his head descend back to his pillow, letting out a soft breath. His gaze met the ceiling, and a choked gasp escaped him. Erebor. 

The Lonely Mountain.

This was the chamber of the King under the mountain. Thorin was now King. They had succeeded. Thorin lay silent, still under the weight of the fulfilled quest, before he allowed a single, hot tear to burn across his temple for all he had lost and regained.

Gradually, the sound of muffled footsteps reached him. A soft knock resounded on the chamber door and he called out in an embarrassingly broken voice. “Enter!” 

The large door creaked open heavily, and Thorin waited stiffly on his bed, displeased that he would be unable to sit or stand to receive his guest.

The face that greeted him, however, was familiar. Balin stood next to the bed, a respectful distance away. Thorin saw the gleam of tears in the older dwarf’s eyes and fought back his own emotion.

“My king,” Balin began, then shook his head. “You did it, lad. We are home.” Thorin felt his lips curl into a small smile. “I have news, if you wish to hear it,” Balin continued.

Thorin turned slightly to better face Balin. The elder dwarf came closer before claiming the bedside chair, settling himself with a small huff of effort. Thorin saw the stark white of bandages beneath Balin’s shirt and sleeves and his brow tightened. Balin noticed his attention and lifted an arm. 

“Aye, we all seem to have shared an equal amount of injury among our company. Ah.. another amount of business, Thorin. Your nephews-” Thorin surged upright, ignoring the scream of agony from his torso. 

“Fili, Kili - where are my sister-sons?” He demanded, beginning to swing his legs down from the bed.

“Calm yourself, lord. Fili and Kili suffered wounds akin to your own, and are in similar states. Both have begun to make their recovery. You are the last to wake of our kind.” Something in Balin’s eyes told Thorin there was more to that statement than he had intended to reveal.

“Balin,” Thorin began, meeting the older dwarf’s eyes. “Where is the halfling?”

Balin’s shoulders straightened and it was a long moment before he spoke. “Bilbo Baggins was not recovered after the battle, sire. We have searched, but none have found him. He is lost to us.” Balin bowed his head slightly, his bushy eyebrows concealing his eyes for a moment.

Thorin sat, statuesque, unable to breathe. Bilbo Baggins was dead? Thorin grimaced at the return of his pain, clasping a hand to his ribs. Balin noticed his movement and rose to assist him. 

Together, they managed to get Thorin propped in a semi-prone position without compressing the wounds in his torso. Thorin was yet silent. Worriedly, Balin laid a hand upon Thorin’s shoulder. “Shall I send for a healer?”

“No, Balin, I thank you for your concern.” Shock had taken all pride from Thorin at being treated like an invalid, even though he knew Balin meant well.

The burglar. The hobbit. _His_ burglar.

Thorin clenched the sheets in his hand, ignoring the split skin across his knuckles. “Did anyone see him fall?” The words seemed to wound him even as they left him. 

Balin shifted in his chair. “None, lord. And the wizard has not seen fit to remain in your halls. He left at the conclusion of the battle, heading back west." Balin paused, and continued with some sadness, "I do not believe he intends to return.”

Thorin laid his head back again to look at the ceiling. He did not answer for a long moment. “No, I don’t believe he will.”

Thorin knew, deep within himself, that many of Gandalf’s reasons for continuing on in Thorin’s company had lain with the very hobbit who had been taken from them. 

If Balin saw the gleam on his cheeks, he made no comment. 

 

* * *

 

 

Gandalf stilled his horse at the gates of Rivendell, breathing the deep air of the Hidden Valley with some relief. He slid carefully from his mount’s back, reaching back once he dismounted to retrieve the precious parcel for which he had rode forth so swiftly from Erebor.

Bilbo Baggins of the Shire lay wrapped in a bloodied cloak, his face deathly pale. Gandalf rested a hand on the hobbit’s face, testing the strength of the soft breath on his palm before he cradled the hobbit within his arms and went into the house of Elrond.

He was greeted swiftly and Bilbo taken from him into the care of Elrond’s healers. It  quickly became quite clear that Bilbo had very little chance. Elrond himself attended to the little burglar, his greater skill required in the delicate nature of Bilbo’s surgery. 

The worst of his wounds lay in the deep scoring across his chest; from collarbone to thigh the deepest of the cuts went, the edges puffy and violently red with infection from the filth of the Orcish blades. Gandalf had gone swiftly to Bilbo’s aid, seeing him overwhelmed by the enemy, but had not been able to save Bilbo the worst injuries. 

In a last strike of hate against the small halfling, an orc had dashed Bilbo’s head against a sharp spike of rock. The blood had quickly soaked Gandalf’s robe, and only with the greatest extent of his power and skill had he been able to staunch the flow enough to bear the halfling away. 

Gandalf stood sentinel without Bilbo's room, watching with ever darkening gaze as attendants brought out bloodied and soiled clothes and rags. No noise came from within the room, and the night drew on, dark and pitiless.

Hours later, Elrond came from the room which he had set aside for Bilbo when Thorin’s company had passed through previously. He met Gandalf in the hall and the look of weariness upon his immortal face was answer enough for the wizard. 

“He fades, Gandalf,” the wizard nodded. The knowledge was as he had feared. “He lost far too much blood. The blow to his head has sent him beyond where either of us may reach him.” Gandalf had hoped for better news, but he had seen the ferocity of the blow, and recalled the quietness with which Bilbo had lain in his arms throughout their journey.

“What can be done?” Gandalf worried his staff, twisting the gnarled skin between his palms.

“We must wait, and attend his wounds. The least of our graces is that the wound to his head keeps him asleep so his outer wounds may yet heal. But Gandalf, do not be deceived if he does recover. None of our skill have been able to draw out the wounded from this form of sleep. He will linger on, yes, but all that you and the world understand as Bilbo Baggins will flee long before he ever chances to awake." Elrond paused and laid a brief hand upon Gandalf's shoulder. They looked out upon the valley, the moon dimly falling over the spires of Imladris, as if it dared not disturb the tentative comfort of the moment. Gandalf shifted, and Elrond drew away, understanding. The Shire had always been very dear to the wizard, and the hobbit even more so. "I am sorry, Gandalf. But it may have been kinder to lay Bilbo Baggins to rest.”

Gandalf turned on Elrond then, his brows snapping together. Yet a moment later, his rage passed, and the look of sympathy on the elf lord’s face remained. They stood for a long while in the night, the wind stirring the dead leaves at their feet. Finally, Gandalf roused himself and gruffly thanked Elrond. “I give thanks for your hospitality. I must return to the Lonely Mountain. There are others I have yet to see to. Will you keep him?” 

Elrond glanced back at his house, then nodded his assent. “We will attend the hobbit with all we may spare, my friend." Gandalf began toward Bilbo's room, and Elrond called after him, his voice careful.  "May your journey be swift and successful.” Gandalf did not reply, and Elrond remained until morning upon the terrace, his gaze fixed eastward.

Gandalf attended Bilbo that night for long hours, mopping the hobbit's brow with a gentle hand, his ancient face creased with his thoughts. He had been much upon Bilbo's pride for the entire quest, and had been very little comfort to the hobbit, he knew. Some small amount of that shame pricked at him in the sickly face of the wounded halfling. The wizard repressed the sentiment and looked clearly at the situation. Bilbo was within Lord Elrond's care, and Gandalf was assured that the mission he intended to set upon would return Bilbo to Middle Earth. Wherever his spirit wandered, Gandalf surmised, it was not the darkness of fear or pain. When he passed a bare palm over Bilbo's sweat riven brow, he felt only a gentle warmth, golden in spirit and smooth, green and full of life. There was a sadness in Gandalf as he began to accept Elrond's statement. It may indeed have been easier to lay Bilbo to rest when he had first been found. It would be a testament to the strength of Bilbo's will if he could draw himself from the honor and peace of the Undying Lands where his spirit now dwelt. Gandalf knew only the greatest of needs would draw Bilbo from his rest, and he could think of only one which might truly restore the hobbit.

Gandalf left Rivendell not a day later, his mount exchanged for a sprightly mare who bore him gladly from her home. Gandalf stopped at the crest of the ridge of the valley, gazing back at the city. The sun rose over Imladris, and gold began to shine from the halls of Elrond. If there was any place he could deign to leave Bilbo, it was here.

“Be well, Bilbo,” he muttered softly, his voice lost in the spray of myriad waterfalls. He turned east, and the thunder of his passage outweighed even the thunder of the falls, echoing down the valley the speed of his quest.

 

* * *

 

 

Thorin sat determinedly on his throne, gazing emotionlessly at the ambassador from Dale. They sought to establish trade and taxes once more with Erebor, yet the thought of official business outside of his own people yet turned his stomach. There was little joy for him, in the throne beneath the mountain. 

The great hall was sorely damaged, scored and singed and buckled with the greedy weight of Smaug after a century of his inhabitance. Yet his people gave little pause to their work. Even now, amidst the silence of their small council, he could hear scores of different works, carving, smithing, sweeping, painting, hammering; all manner of repairs which he must oversee to restore Erebor.

The ambassador called to him, and Thorin gazed darkly at the man. “I desire peace only at this time, ambassador. Tell your Master I will send for him if Erebor decides to open its gates freely. You may go.” 

Unable to protest at such a succinct dismissal, the ambassador bowed and left unhappily. Thorin braced his fist against the arm of his throne as he stood, steeling his face against the tender spear of pain that yet plagued him.

Fili had yet to join him in his seat as heir, but Thorin had no desire to speed his sister-son from his healing bed. Despite Balin’s reassurances, Thorin had gotten up only the day after he awoke, to see his nephews’ condition with his own eyes. 

Teeth gritted, he watched in equal measure the pain each breath caused the brothers, laid out in separate beds an arm's from one another. Thorin approved of the healer’s decision to keep them together. So much of Fili’s soul and passion was bound up in Kili, and the same held true in Fili for Kili. To separate them would strain their will and slow their healing. 

Thorin spent a moment each with his sister-sons, laying a gentle hand upon their brows and whispering a small encouragement to each. 

He left the room quickly as he was able, feeling the depth of his strength fading quickly. He made it halfway to his own chamber before his vision began to darken tellingly. Before he was able to suffer the embarrassment of going unconscious in the halls, Balin appeared once more. The dwarf made no sign or comment of judgement, but helped Thorin quietly to his room. Thorin had lost a great deal of shame in accepting the aid of his company, but he would accept help of this kind only from Balin. Only to Balin had Thorin released a little of the pain of losing the hobbit.

There was something intrinsically different about Balin that separated him from any other member of the company. It was something he saw that existed between Dwalin and Balin in equal measure. When he deigned to rise from his bed and walk at longer distances each day, he had seen more than once the two dwarves with their foreheads together, talking quietly. Dwalin had also been wounded, but not so grievously. He had nearly lost a thumb in ripping at a warg’s head, but the healer’s had been able to save the digit. Dwalin complained little enough, but Thorin could see the tenderness with which he treated the healing finger. It would be a long while before Dwalin could profess to wield his sword with equal ferocity as before the battle with his weakened grip.

Thorin had also discovered upon waking that Balin had stewarded the throne of Erebor in the absence of both Thorin and Fili. Thorin approved of Balin's leadership, and without pause accepted him as his permanent steward, should the occasion arise. Balin accepted the honor with humility, and continued the duty he had assumed while Thorin continued to heal. 

Thorin had heard nothing of Bilbo in the weeks from his awakening. Gandalf, too, had yet to be heard from. Although he thought Gandalf to be outside of the order of death, he would not put it past the wizard to have moved on at least in some form.

Yet he was not to be denied knowledge for very long. Only the next day, sitting once more in the hall of the king to receive emissaries once more from Dale did Thorin receive the wizard Gandalf. Immediately, he sat straight up, ignoring the pain in his chest. Gandalf walked past the long line of messengers and nodded deferentially to Thorin, who was already getting up to meet him.

“I have news, Thorin, King under the Mountain, but it may not be so publicly heard.” Gandalf did not move or indicate the men waiting behind him, glaring impatiently at the old man who had jumped ahead of them, but Thorin understood.

“I will receive you tomorrow. I have business to attend to at once.” Thorin nodded at the Men, who, now used to being dismissed by the dwarven king, left the hall silently. No doubt, there would be grumbling about him tonight in Dale, but he had no spare thought to care what the Men of Esgaroth considered of him.

Gandalf drew him aside into a small antechamber which he had not yet rediscovered since they had returned to Erebor. For a moment, he was lost in memory, until Gandalf closed the door behind them and began his council. The words he spoke sent chills through Thorin, his skin prickling with anticipation. “I have news, as I said. I have been to Rivendell with haste and returned to give you aid however you may receive it.” 

“Is that it, then? You abandon us at the field of death to go running back to the elves? I might have known,” Thorin scoffed, turning away from Gandalf. His temper was short already, for reasons he had no desire to assess, and the ruminations of an elf-loving wizard gave him no aid.

The roughness with which Gandalf took hold of him surprised him, and angered him less than it should have. “No, you foolish dwarf, my news is not that I shared cup with the Sylvan folk, it is thus; Bilbo Baggins is alive.”

Thorin stood silent at Gandalf's word, his gaze unfocussed and far away. Gandalf waited patiently while Thorin processed his declaration. His eyes seemed to deepen, and all at once Gandalf saw the white that had gathered more thickly in the dwarf's countenance. 

Thorin squared himself to Gandalf, his brow drawn and his mouth set. “Where is he?” The words were small, not daring to hope.

“He is in Rivendell, where I took him from the battle. He was grievously wounded.” Thorin stepped closer to Gandalf, a fire he recognized beginning in the dwarf's eyes.

“He could have been treated here, our healers are vastly competent. Why did you take him from Erebor?” Gandalf heard what Thorin meant, and only barely hid the gleam in his eye. _  
_

“When I found our burglar, he was already crossing. I was merely able to hold him and get him back to Lord Elrond, but none of our skill has been able to raise him.” Gandalf had no desire to overly burden Thorin with the detail of Bilbo's injury, and if his venture was successful, he wouldn't have to tell Thorin any of the details. 

“What does that mean?” Thorin demanded, his words short. Gandalf marvelled at the change the news had wrought in the dwarf. 

“It means that Bilbo Baggins’ body may yet live, but his spirit has not yet proved it has endured. The elves could not reach him, and neither could I. It is bittersweet news I bring, Thorin. It is our fear the Bilbo may never again walk in Middle Earth, or see the halls of his home.” Gandalf realized he had neglected the Shire, but an instant later, saw the truth in his misspoken words. Bilbo’s true home was clear now.

Thorin stood straight and tall, taller than his nature seemed to allow. Gandalf knew at once what Thorin intended and his eyes danced with his success. “I will go to him. Our burglar cannot be allowed to pass on in such company.” Gandalf allowed the slight against the elves, knowing it was merely to hide the tenderness Thorin had allowed into himself. He began away from Gandalf, but stopped at the door, his face turned away. His voice was as deep and strong as Gandalf remembered. “He will _not_ pass on.” 

Gandalf allowed a small smile to cross his face, hidden by his beard and Thorin’s retreating back. The calls and shouts that rang through the halls of Erebor echoed back to the wizard, who went to wait at the gates of Erebor.

The fire had been started once more.

 

* * *

 

Three months to the day since Thorin Oakenshield awoke from the Battle of the Five Armies, the leaves of Rivendell rained ever gold and brown, gently skittering through the softly lit halls. It was the wee hours of the morning, and very few elves roamed Imladris, preferring the quiet of their own quarters in the deep hours of the night. 

There was the sound of wind and leaves, and also of the water, but there was another sound, far beneath the rest. The deepness of the sound told the weight of the approaching creature, and the rhythm belied another; a company of small, fast ponies was entering the Hidden Valley.

Few elves stirred at the sound, used to visitors attending the house at strange hours. Yet one elf stood waiting to receive the arriving company. Lord Elrond of Rivendell stood tall and silent at the foot of the stairs at the gate of Rivendell, watching with keen eyes the approach of the small company. He had watched them from afar, many miles past the sight of his gaze where only foresight had granted him view. There were not many; less than twenty, but more than ten. Elrond’s aged face let little emotion through, but to a keen observer, there could have been perceived a spark of amusement in the elf lord’s eye. 

The company of Thorin Oakenshield had returned once more to Imladris. 

 


	2. Arrival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not expect so much attention to this! Thank you to everyone for tagging along with me on this crazy shipping adventure.
> 
> I promise some ACTUAL happenings are going to start... er.. happening, in the next bit.
> 
> I know this chapter is a bit slow; I really wanted to develop Thorin's character as it relates to his feelings toward Bilbo, because I didn't want to make him feel too out of character by jumping straight onto the LOVE-BILBO-INSTANTLY wagon. 
> 
> I doubt this fic will be longer than 4 or 5 chapters, as even I'm starting to get antsy about it. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Gandalf arrived an hour after Thorin’s company, having taken better care for his mount’s strength than the dwarves. He dismounted at Rivendell’s gate, giving the reigns to a young elf with moonlit hair. Though it was very late indeed, enough lamps had been lit through the house that Gandalf could yet perceive the company across the house. 

He stood for a moment, pondering whether his pipe would be better served at a later time. Gandalf patted his robes decisively and strode purposefully into the house of Elrond. The Lord himself was attending Thorin’s company, no doubt.

He found his way back to the room where he’d left Bilbo many weeks before. He had not heard any news, ill or well of Bilbo’s health, and could not discern the emotion that roiled within him. Before him, the low growl of voices echoed through the hall. 

One above the rest, Gandalf knew to be Thorin, already in a short temper. “...cannot see him?!”

Gandalf raised his eyes in a thoughtless prayer and stepped around the corner. A slender elf maid stood before Thorin Oakenshield, looking immovable and statuesque in comparison to the rising fury emanating from the dwarf king. Lord Elrond was curiously absent, a fact which Gandalf did not easily dismiss. Gandalf stepped through the company, who murmured their greetings, careful not to draw their king’s attention. 

Thorin turned on Gandalf, then, sensing his approach. “Wizard,” he greeted, glowering. Gandalf thought his fists would turn white at their clenching. 

“Master Oakenshield. I perceive we have all arrived?” Gandalf glanced around, counting in his head. Yes, nearly all the thirteen were present, save Fili and Kili. Gandalf surmised the two brothers had remained at Erebor (with reluctance), still healing from their wounds. For a moment, he wondered at the presence of the rest of the company, considering only a few were truly affectionate with Bilbo upon their quest. Yet sorrow drew all together, Gandalf knew, and he begrudged none of them their presence. Thorin called him back, his voice harsh.

“We have been forbidden access to our hobbit, wizard. Not even to stay near him; we have been told to leave!” Gandalf looked upon the elf who barred their path and sighed inwardly. She met his gaze stolidly, though Gandalf could see the weariness in her bearing.

“I cry your pardon, mistress. We will withdraw our company for the time being.” Gandalf bowed to the woman, which prompted the dwarves around him to do the same. Only Thorin remained, stiff-backed and straight, his lips tight and bloodless. His eyes sparked his fury at Gandalf subverting his command, but he said nothing.

“I will send word to you Gandalf, and you, Thorin of Erebor, when news may be found. For now,” she bowed her head, indicating with a pale, shaking hand the hallway past Bilbo’s room. “Rooms have been prepared for you, and you may find food and drink at your pleasure.” Another elf waited, a circlet upon his brow and a noble look on his face. The dwarves mumbled greetings wearily and the elf nodded his in turn. Gandalf watched them go, noting Thorin’s remain.

“What say you, Thorin? Will you not give the healers rest?” Thorin did not turn to Gandalf, his gaze was fixed upon the solid wood of the door, as if he might burn the barrier between him and Bilbo.

“I will find no rest, nor comfort in these halls, as you well know. I have come for one reason and I will not be diverted. What of the hobbit? _I will see him._ ” Thorin snapped, stepping forward.

Gandalf moved to intercept him, setting his staff down between Thorin and the healer maid, who looked even less hale than Gandalf had first witnessed. 

He turned from Thorin and questioned her quietly. “Have you not rested? Does Lord Elrond not see your health maintained?”

The maiden shook her head, long deep colored hair coursing over her shoulders. At this distance, Gandalf saw the weakness in her limbs, the shallow depth in her eyes. “It is not our duty that we should sleep when our patient is at hand, Gandalf the Grey. Bilbo Baggins is yet upon the step of fate; we have tarried many days now to hold him here.” She gazed then at Thorin, who looked upon her with too mixed an expression to note. “I bar you access not out of pride or cruelty, King under the Mountain; we do so only to extend but a little our chance of keeping your burglar at hand.” A flicker in Thorin’s face marked his concern, but the dwarf was keen at his blank expression, looking pitilessly back at the elf. “He fades,” she whispered, and Gandalf saw the toll their efforts had taken upon her. Gandalf felt Thorin’s wrath next to him diminishing, the journey’s toll making itself known, as well as the depth of his worry for Bilbo pressing heavily upon him.

“And how do you hold him,” Thorin asked, his voice less harsh than before. She turned her gaze upon him fully now, and Thorin swam in grey oceans of weariness before she blinked and looked askance. 

Her voice sounded quietly in the hall, yet neither wizard of dwarf heard anything save the steady rise and fall of her words. “We sing to him of home, of Middle Earth; we stroke his hair and hold his hands. He grows cold even as we rock him upon the hearth. His lips pale as wine passes them.” At once, the youth of her person belied the age within; mortality pressed upon her with Bilbo’s fading. “We cannot deceive time, Thorin Oakenshield. Bilbo Baggins’ will has not returned. We hold him here at the extent of our power, with all we may give save our own lives. He has gone far to the Grey Shores, and the call of Home rests upon us all at this surgery.” She lapsed into silence, the sway of her body not lost upon either of them. Both knew of the fierce desire that encompassed the Elves once they had heard the call from Valinor, and the will it took to remain apart. A long moment passed in terse silence before it was broken, a deep call of some unknown night-bird, mournful and telling; time passed, even at the extent of their argument, and even now, every moment might be precious.

Thorin came upon the door, raising a hand to rest upon the warm wood. Within, the pith of his journey lay; heart yet beating, there was nothing which would keep Thorin from the hobbit, mortal or no. His hand slipped from the bark and he moved away, keeping his face turned from both man and elf. He could not resort to violence or harsh words here, in reach of Bilbo’s tentative spirit. The responsibility of his rank, and the burden of reality weighed upon his decision. “I will not disturb his rest, if that is your wish.” The words came slowly, the grudge within them palpable.

“I thank you. If it gives you comfort, stay within distance of this place and take your rest. There may yet be time these next hours for you to attend him.” She paused and Thorin heard the smooth crease of her robe as it caught the stray leaves on the floor. Wind passed across his face, and Thorin was grateful for the deepness of the night, hiding the expression he could not withhold at this result. “Do not give up hope yet,” the elf had come close to him, and Thorin felt the length of his swift journey ply upon his limbs, even as his former irritation laid a hand on him.

He nodded curtly, glancing past his shoulder to the closed door. As he left, Gandalf at his side, the sound of the door came to him, as if in accusation. 

For all that had passed between them, Thorin was not certain of his right to disturb Bilbo, yet he was bound to try. He owed the halfling everything.

Determined, Thorin joined his company in the courtyard where they’d waited apart. The relief on their faces shamed him a moment before he accepted it. They looked nervously upon him, glancing in turns at the open doors that waited around them. 

“Go,” he nodded, laying a hand upon the shoulder of one. “We rest, and soon we shall attend our burglar.” 

No response was made, yet Thorin felt the fierce protection of his company extend their will back to the little chamber where the hobbit lay. A moment later and the courtyard had emptied, save Thorin and Balin. Balin shifted under the weight of Thorin’s gauntleted hand, having remained at Thorin’s gesture. He moved off a ways, glancing up at the dim stars above, softly blanketed from view.

“News of Mr. Baggins, sire?” Balin was as weary as Thorin, yet he stood straight under Thorin’s gaze.

Thorin thought for a moment, of telling Balin a story he would like to hear. Yet he could not abide the worry in his friend’s face. The words came slowly, realizations even to himself. They came from him as if he were speaking through iron shavings, and the ache in his chest was not merely from his scars. “He passes. Already he walks among the Undying Lands, and the elves have not the power to hold him here. I fear....” The strength of Balin’s gaze gave him support, and he took another breath to steady himself. “I fear he will not return. I fear that Bilbo walks alone, that he lies in pain across two realms, unable to stay or go. I fear it is my doing, Balin.” Balin made no word or insult at the break of Thorin’s voice.

He made no quarrel as Balin gripped his forearm and laid their forehead’s together. Thorin closed his eyes, utterly weary, at once desperate and too proud for comfort.

Finally, Balin withdrew, his grip tightening before he let Thorin go. “We are here, Thorin. Bilbo will not go alone, if that is his will. But I believe there is strength yet in our burglar. He could not have so captured you otherwise.” 

If Thorin were younger, he would have flushed at his indiscretion, yet Balin made no jest at his behest. All that he spoke was true. Thorin could not deny it, and found no shame in admitting his affection. He had raced from Erebor mere days after Gandalf had appeared, leaving Dain in his place to guard the throne. The other dwarf had accepted without pause, but his gaze was curious as he asked the reason for Thorin's haste. 

Thorin now understood why he had hurried so from the home he had nearly paid his life for. _I could never be at peace without the one who gave me back my home. I owe him all of my success, and took from him everything_. In that moment, Thorin despised himself, and pressed his company ever harder in their journey. What should have taken half a year took a mere ten weeks of hard journeying. All the nights of their quest, Thorin had stood many of the watches, his face growing gaunt and the white threads in his beard and hair ever greater. Yet Thorin took all these things and thought nothing of them. The thought he had avoided for months now lingered before him, and it had left him near tears time and again.

_  I would do anything to see him again. _

“I spoke wrongly of him, when last we were together. I fear he believes the worst of us- of me. Worse still, I wonder if this all is my own dream, and that Bilbo may have been glad of his departure...” Thorin’s voice trailed into silence, and his face was once again hidden in the shadow of the moonlit courtyard. This too, pressed upon him all the nights of their journey. Was he chasing a dream? Did he hunt a vision which would forever elude him? Was Erebor the only prize to be gleaned from his torments?

Balin could not cuff or shake Thorin, but he could still halt his self-pitying before he mired himself deeper. “Do not dismiss yourself so quickly, Thorin, King under the Mountain. You led us to Erebor, and we could not have retaken it without your hand upon us. Bilbo knew his place among us, and knew your affection of him. Whatever actions he took were for our own sakes, as we came to know.” Thorin nodded his head, not yet willing to meet Balin’s gaze. There was too much weakness in him to act as he should now. Balin gave a put upon sigh and sat heavily upon one of the delicately carved benches the yard offered. Thorin made no move to sit near him. “I saw the pain in our hobbit when you dismissed him, Thorin. That was no simple wound he took at your parting; long have I known of Bilbo’s feeling, yet never have I made mention of it. Bilbo carried for you only the deepest of respect, and the warmest of words. Although you may have been harsh and he believes he is outside of your affection, I do not believe he is lost to you.”  Balin glanced near Thorin and concluded his speech. Thorin was surprised at the hand upon his shoulder, turning quickly at the touch. The same elf maid as before waited behind him, her eyes dark without the lamps upon them. Thorin felt a thrill of fear before he quelled it. 

She looked silently upon him for a moment, the night welling between them in the quiet. “If you wish, we believe Bilbo may yet receive company this night.” Thorin came close to her, his face abnormally open to her gaze. Elf or no, Thorin could not bring himself to care. The healer turned and led him away, the leaves beneath their feet marking their departure.

Balin’s words echoed after him as he walked, too quickly, after the elf healer. “He waits for you, Thorin.”

He felt again the ache of the scars in his chest, and went faster. The door lay open before him, the lamps softer even than last. He glanced at the healer, who nodded and gazed within. Thorin carefully crossed the threshold, meeting eyes with another healer, who stood at his entrance.

Some message passed between them, and the elf left the room, the door shuttering quietly behind him. The room lay in silence for a moment, before Thorin felt the soft whisper of wind touch his face, pulling him forward.

There was a low fire in the hearth to the back of the room, and one wall of the room lay entirely open save for translucent curtains, which hung restrained with thick cords.  A distance from the curtained room lay a small pool, flowing swift and smooth to fall beyond sight at the edge of the terrace, a stone’s throw away. The moon lit the chamber as it came from its bed of clouds. Finally, Thorin looked upon the bed.

There, nestled and propped between silken coverings and pillows, pale and unmoving, lay Bilbo Baggins.

* * *

Gandalf had not looked long before finding Elrond where he had left him, many weeks before. The elf was gazing thoughtlessly at the waters of his house, following the thread of the river into darkness. 

He did not mask his approach, too weary to properly address the elf lord. “Mellonamin,” Elrond spoke, turning to greet Gandalf. 

Gandalf nodded shortly, bracing himself against his staff. For a moment, weariness beyond his capability took him, before passing under the soft moon of Imladris.

“So Thorin Oakenshield returns to Rivendell,” Elrond observed, his voice implacable, yet Gandalf felt some small accusation in the words.

“You knew my purpose, even before you took Bilbo as your ward,” Gandalf replied, his weariness leaving him no expense for courtesy.

“Perhaps. Yet I cannot disguise my worry at this incursion, Gandalf.” He looked sharply at the elf, ready to retort before Elrond continued. “I have no quarrel with Thorin or any of his company; my worry is for our hobbit. He lies precarious this night. Less than a fortnight ago, his body ceased to eat or drink. None of our coaxing or skill has been able to sustain him. Before this moon, Gandalf, I fear your Bilbo will take his leave.” Elrond turned to face Gandalf. He was surprised at the weariness and the grief that lingered there. There was already an apology within Elrond's face; Gandalf wished nothing to do with it. “We have done all that we could, Gandalf, yet he remains beyond our reach. I... do not doubt Thorin’s intent, or the strength of his will. But there is no force that we know of which may flout the workings of mortality. I fear this journey will only end in grief for our Lord of Erebor.” Elrond slowly paced the edge of the terrace, his simple robe catching the leaves upon the stones. 

“I have felt it,” Gandalf replied, moving toward a smooth backed bench. He sat and drew out his pipe, but did not light it. There was no joy in the motion, and the pipe looked too much as Bilbo’s had, before it had been lost to the quest. “But I do not believe all journeys must end in sorrow. There is strength yet in our hobbit, strength which Thorin recalls. If there are any who could draw him forth, I believe Thorin is the one to do it.” Gandalf felt some determination return at his words.

Elrond stilled, looking back at his home over Gandalf’s head. The wizard knew he watched with shameless eyes the smallest patient in his halls, more care than he wished to admit in his countenance. 

The moon’s light brightened over them both, and Gandalf gazed at the stars, clear and assuring overhead. With practiced hands, he lit his pipe, the sound of the waterfalls numb in his ears. 

Elrond watched quietly the close of a door, then moved once more to the edge of the terrace. Gentle smoke rings filled the air, and the comforting smell of Old Toby drifted through the quiet of the house. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mellonamin - my friend


	3. Coming Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I would like to thank everyone who has commented and given me their support in continuing to write this.  
> Secondly, I am very sorry it's taken me so long to update!! I just started the second half of the third year of my degree, and I'm also mid-production for a play. I will do my best to wrap this up in a timely manner!
> 
> Mostly, I really want to extend my thanks for the support and the enthusiasm!

 

Thorin stood carefully upon the edge of the room, breath barely stirring. He was tense all over and the press of his armor, which he’d neglected to remove, hung heavily on his limbs. 

Every glance to the occupant of the bed made his heart writhe painfully. Thorin took a breath, steeling himself. His ribs ached, yet the dwarf king made no compromise in his approach. 

A chair, obviously much used, lay within arm’s reach of the large, elf-size bed. It was lower than a normal height for an elf, made for easier access for the small folk. Bilbo lay in the centre, lost in the folds of silk. Thorin made out in the dim of the room the lankness of Bilbo’s hair, the paleness at his mouth, and the gauntness in his cheek.

His heart caught and Thorin came closer, ignoring the chair. Putting aside propriety and custom, Thorin seated himself upon the low edge of the bed. Bilbo did not stir at the shift in the mattress. Thorin looked at his small hobbit for a long moment, taking in the face he had banished so hatefully, many days before. 

Before he understood what he meant to do, Thorin found himself reaching out to stroke Bilbo’s brow. The skin there was alarmingly cool, and Thorin leaned closer, peeling back the excess coverlet that encompassed the hobbit. Wrapped neatly, like the tenderest of parcels, Bilbo Baggins lay, his torso swathed in crisp bandages. Thorin trailed a hand over the loosest of the wrappings, and found the large band across Bilbo’s torso lift beneath his palm.

He glanced surreptitiously at the door, not wishing to injure Bilbo, and not wishing to be chastised by the healers. Thorin damned consequence and carefully lifted away the bandages. The sight exposed to him took away his breath.

Although it was clearly well tended, Bilbo’s chest looked cleaved; it was as if a delicate surgeon had split his torso in three parts, leaving long trenches of opened flesh. Bile rose in Thorin’s throat and he forced it back, gazing firmly at the injuries his burglar had taken. 

Thorin pushed aside several small silken pillows and found more bandages lower on the hobbit’s torso. A slight twinge of heat rose in him at his frivolous handling of Bilbo’s form, yet he found no true cause of shame in his actions. He was not polluting Bilbo’s body, or abusing his injured state. Decided, Thorin lifted another swatch of gauzy wrappings away from Bilbo’s hips and lower abdomen. The great seams from Bilbo’s shoulders continued below, tapering to slim ends. 

A fearsome wrath rose in Thorin at the sight of Bilbo’s wounds. He examined the flesh closer, seeing small rows of pinpricks lining the edges of each seam. Clearly, the healers had attempted to seal the rents in their patient’s torso with sinew and thread. Thorin shook his head; Orcish wounds, if not treated extensively at their onset, always festered, viciously and fatally. The flesh had, at least, achieved a bloodless tone, instead of the black and grey hue most Orcish wounds inherited. Thorin was impressed at that aspect of the healing, but the sight of the half-open rents in Bilbo’s chest worried him.

Were the elves unable to properly sew him? Or had they recently reopened the wounds to drain them? Thorin leaned closer, but found no trace of foul smell in the cuts. But then, he suspected the hobbit would be bathed with great care regularly to maintain the clarity in his blood so infection could not set in. Thorin found himself battling the clinical nature of his thoughts; Bilbo’s form gentle in his arms, a damp cloth running over the hobbit’s limbs, Bilbo’s head against his shoulder... Thorin drew himself from his thoughts. The Bilbo he saw within his mind was hale and unwounded. Yet Thorin could not deny the truth of Bilbo’s condition when it lay bared to his eyes.

There was little life in Bilbo’s form. Thorin felt it the moment his fingers brushed Bilbo’s brow. There he felt only a small flutter of warmth, which even now faded. Fear grew in him. Did Bilbo yet draw breath? He held his hand below Bilbo’s lips, waiting for a soft puff of air. He waited, and waited. Panic took Thorin over, and he rose onto his knees on the bed, taking Bilbo’s face in his hands. He sealed his lips around Bilbo’s, breathing deep into the hobbit’s chest. Bilbo did not stir, and Thorin breathed for him again, watching the split valleys of Bilbo’s chest rise as his lungs inflated. 

“Come on, damn you. Don’t you give up. You will not go yet into death, Bilbo. Not yet!” Thorin cried, leaning toward Bilbo’s face again, ignoring the shining wet that fell onto Bilbo’s pale cheeks. He wished he could pound on Bilbo’s chest to palpate his heart, but the wounds in Bilbo’s flesh abated him. 

A small warmth blossomed under him. Like the beginnings of an ember, slowly flourishing, gaining speed. Thorin sat back, staring. Bilbo’s skin began to flush, filling with blood. He found himself slipping Bilbo into his arms, Bilbo’s head cradled against his shoulder, the hobbit’s legs draped over Thorin’s lap. There was little thought in him for propriety then.

Thorin heard the first faint hush of breath and felt a catch in his throat. 

Bilbo was alive.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo paused, short, leafy branches catching at his elbows.  Blades of grass soft as down caressed his feet as he stood on the path, straining to hear something that was not a sound.

“That’s funny,” he mused, glancing up at the muted white of the sky. Green trees filled the spaces around him, and even as he watched, rolling fields spread around him, as if he were at the hub of a great wheel, the land emanating all about him.

A strange warmth lay over his entire form. It was not the simple, peaceful cool that had enveloped him the past era of his life, but something entirely different. Like heat, like flames, like light.

Bilbo raised his head, staring hard at the mist above him. _Like life_ , he thought, suddenly. Yes. Life.

Bilbo gazed tentatively down at himself. He saw his skin, the bare fur of his feet. Pale and gold washed over and through his skin, and Bilbo stared at this body he had never before known.

A sudden apprehension breached him and Bilbo felt something falter within him.

Something wasn’t right. 

Not now, it seemed to tell him, not yet.

And a voice, beneath all this, rumbling like the deep; a mountain calling him below.

He felt many things at once; the grass under his feet and silk beneath his calves. The wind at his back, and hardened leather braced against his shoulders. And then, sunlight and all the warmth of that world against his cheek, and a voice in his ear calling his name.

Bilbo fought for these feelings, struggling to perceive them more clearly. The moment he tried, they faded. Furious, an emotion he had not experienced in what felt like eternity, he drew back, the force of his spirit struggling fiercely against some imperceptible wall. 

His eyes closed, clenched in effort. Had he deigned to watch the green land about him, he would have seen all the earth dissipating, trees swimming in existence and water curling into itself, blue and unformed; all the world falling back into misty thought and forgotten dream. 

Again he strove toward that warmth, that life, not knowing how he fought or why. Something greater than knowing called to him, as if the most exquisite tenderness somewhere shook him. 

As if he came from the bottom of a well, a great pressure encompassed him, clutching at his limbs. Bilbo felt nothing beneath him yet found purchase upon some forgotten stone of that world and pushed, striving upward, out. 

A corridor of water, deep and dark, lay vertical above him. And far, far overhead, the faintest gleam came to him. Nameless, thoughtless, the hobbit forced his deadened limbs into motion. Each stroke upward brought some new hurt to him. Long splits opened in his skin. His head began to throb. A deep ache filled his bones, and a terrible weakness grasped him. 

Just beyond his reach lay that light; a doorway; a way out. All the air had gone from him, and he felt his spirit sinking fast.

Fire flowed down his throat, the light flaring above. Heat touched his lips, and the sweetest words just out of hearing filled him with vigor.

All the darkness of that place left him in an instant as he stretched out, agony and longing and all the breadth of mortality spreading across him like a cloak, stretching with him as he passed into the distant light. 

Halos filled his eyes in a flare of brilliance, then a different darkness encompassed him. He was heavy, substantial. He felt himself draw breath, muscles unlocking. Burning filled his limbs, the rush of blood filling his veins.

Bilbo Baggins opened his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

Thorin watched Bilbo come awake, his misty eyes slowly clearing. He realized their position, and how he must look, an instant before Bilbo blinked up at him. 

He decided a few moments later that he could not blame Bilbo for screaming at the bearded wild-man who held him, face mere inches away.

He was less generous in his reaction to the burst of Elvish healers upon them, faces thunderous, hands reaching toward him. Thorin stared back at the healers, challenge in his face. Bilbo was quiet now, staring at the new intruders, his fingers weakly grasping at Thorin’s furs. It seemed the wild-looking dwarf was less terrifying than the murderous looking Big-Folk. 

The silence stretched between them until one of the she-elves stepped forward, thin-lipped as she regarded Thorin, indecently wrapped up with their patient.

“It would be pertinent to allow us to examine Bilbo,” she said at last, her voice laden with unspoken threat.

Thorin fought the urge to tighten his grip on Bilbo, aware of the near-constant quiver that ran across the hobbit’s skin. Another thought struck him and he retorted. “Yes, you seem to have forgotten how to stitch wounds shut, or were your plans to let him lay so rent until he was past recall?”

One of the male healers took a step toward the bed, harsh Sindarin falling from his mouth at Thorin’s goading. The first healer stopped him with an outstretched arm, gaze still locked upon Thorin. Thorin had risen from the bed to meet the second healer, his expression grim. The she-elf moved further between them, speaking softly to her fellows in Elvish before she turned back to Thorin. “His wounds were such that we must open them to ensure they remain unspoiled.”

Thorin made to retort again but a faint noise from the bed froze them all. Thorin turned abruptly, gaze falling on Bilbo’s fragile form and finding himself caught by the foggy, amused stare of the hobbit.

“Still arguing?” Bilbo asked, humor yet present in the tightness of his voice.

The healer and her companions moved forward, Thorin doing his best to bar them. “Thorin,” Bilbo admonished, even as he allowed the dwarf to grip him gently and raise him against the myriad pillows. It seemed as though the fog of Bilbo's long dormancy had risen, and he now recalled where and who he was. Thorin felt no small amount of relief a this; Bilbo's fearful reaction at his awakening had filled him with the undesirable knowledge that those who returned from terrible wounds often forgot much of their lives before their injury.

“I trust not the machinations of healers that cannot stitch a wound,” he snapped, squaring himself against the she-elf on the opposite side of the bed. Bilbo’s cold fingers found his own and Thorin’s heart jumped apace. He curled his larger hand around the hobbit’s, a welcome distraction from his outburst.

“Master hobbit,” she began, touching the back of Bilbo’s hand lightly. He gazed back at her, his face remarkably sentient, despite his previous detachment. “You have been far away of late. Can you recall what gave you the will to return?” Though she made no remark, Thorin felt the weight of her gaze, even as it lingered only momentarily. 

Bilbo’s hand tightened in Thorin’s own before he replied, a wry note in his voice. “Some things are best left unknown but to those who have lived them. I still have some secrets to bear.” Thorin felt his mouth curling and stilled it, furrowing his brow haughtily at the healers.

“As you will,” she replied, though her countenance had darkened slightly at his defiance. “If I may, your wound requires seeing to. Will you bear our attentions for a while yet?”

Bilbo let out a long breath and nodded. Thorin saw a small remnant of the long sleep under which he had lain glimmer in the hobbit’s expression as he reclined further in the bed. He slipped his hand from Bilbo’s and rested his palm against Bilbo’s shoulder for a moment. Bilbo made no reply and Thorin withdrew. The healers had drawn out needle and thread and the female’s mouth moved silently as she speedily closed Bilbo’s wound. Bilbo’s eyes had shut and his lips pressed together. Thorin felt out of place as he watched the elves work, but made no effort to retreat. He had words yet he must relay to Bilbo. There was much between them which was not yet resolved.

Finally, the elves withdrew, after gently winding lengths of gauzy fabric about Bilbo’s torso. One of the elves stirred an earthy smelling drink which he left near the bed. The elf straightened and met Thorin’s gaze unflinchingly. “Please ensure Master Baggins drinks of this, it will greatly aid in his recovery.” Though it seemed a trifle forced, Thorin still felt a small thrill as the healer inclined his head slightly to him. Thorin nodded shortly in return and the healer left. Bilbo was breathing softly, his bandaged chest rising softly. At last, he spoke.

“I thought never to see you again, Thorin Oakenshield. When last we parted, I perceived I would never again be counted among your companions.” Bilbo paused and his voice grew quieter. “I thought that you hated me, that you wished me erased because of my betrayal.” Bilbo’s head turned away, his fingers tracing the delicate weave of the silk sheets.

Thorin laid a hand over Bilbo’s. “I would be the least Kingly of creatures if I could not realize what you intended. Dwarves are not oft to forgive grudges, but I can admit now that you never deigned to wrong me.” Bilbo’s gaze was unwavering as he turned to look at him and Thorin felt the beginnings of uncertainty bloom in his chest. A long moment passed between them.

“I am not certain there is anything left to say between us, King under the Mountain. I know where I belong. When I am hale enough, I will return to the Shire to live out my days in peace. That is not your way, Thorin.”

Thorin fought back a harsh plea, unable to forego his pride, even now. “If this is your wish,” he offered. Bilbo withdrew his hand, clasping his fists on his lap.

“I mean you no discourtesy, Thorin. I have long known that I brought more trouble than you or the others intended. I mean to return home. I have done with quests and dragons. We accomplished what you and your kin set out to do. Do you not desire to sit in your home and bring about restoring your kingdom?” Thorin stepped back. Bilbo’s statements were cold, perhaps colder than he intended, but Thorin could not find much fault in them. There truly was little left he felt able to say. Bilbo had nothing to do with him, and it seemed as if he had never wanted so.

“I am glad you are well, Master Hobbit. I will leave you in peace, then.” Thorin replied stiffly. He walked to the door, back ramrod straight, his fists tight.

“I am grateful you hold no grudge,” Bilbo called after him. Thorin turned in the doorway to look upon the hobbit. His curly hair gleamed in the dying fire, his eyes large in his face. Between them, a great chasm had opened and there Thorin saw no bridge by which to join them.

“I am fortunate to have known your company, Bilbo Baggins.” He closed the door slowly behind him, his last words just barely reaching the hobbit. “I would have chosen no other to count among my companions.”

The door shut and Thorin gathered himself. There truly was nothing left for him but gold and a throne which now loomed empty before him. A great breath caused his armor to creak as he stalked from the hall. A black mood filled him and painfully, Thorin began to reconcile himself to the loss of Bilbo Baggins. A shameful part of him wished quietly that perhaps it had been better if Bilbo had indeed passed on, if only to spare him the length of lonely days that now lay before him.

* * *

 

Balin stood waiting without Thorin’s room, his face earnest. Thorin kept his expression false, not certain whether to rage or weep. Balin seemed to understand and he smiled sadly. “Did he not return your affections, my lord?” 

Thorin shook his head. “I am indeed a fool. A great fool. The only feeling between us was that which parted us. I resolved that, but there was no path by which I could entreat his affections.” Balin stilled, staring hard at him.

“Did you not tell him of your intention? Did you do nothing but abandon him?” Balin demanded. Thorin felt the urge to quail before the elder dwarf but steeled himself.

“He did not appear to desire my company further,” he growled in response.

Balin turned and muttered something unbecoming in Khuzdûl. “Go back and speak to him! How can you know what lies in another’s heart if you do not mine it out? What dwarf abandons a quest half fulfilled? There is much left to be said between you. If you deny that then you indeed are the fool you name yourself.”

“What then do you suggest? What remedy can I inflict upon him?” Thorin wished he could have his sword or forge at hand; the nervous tension in him fought for realization. Balin was right, despite his harshness. He could not be denied the truth of this matter. Forever it would haunt him if he never gleaned the truth of Bilbo’s affections.

“Go back to him and speak your heart. Pride has no place here. Put aside the King under the Mountain, if only for a hobbit’s affections. Is Bilbo not a compromise you are willing to make?” Balin’s eyes were kind despite his tone.

“For him,” Thorin admitted quietly. “I would give all to hold him in my arms again with truth between us.”

Balin nodded and walked to his room, leaving Thorin in the courtyard. He took a deep breath and made the short journey back to the hall of healing. The door was closed still, and Thorin laid a palm upon the wood before he opened it. 

Bilbo’s face was turned from the door as Thorin came into the room. “Mae govannen- please, I wish to be alone.” Bilbo said, his voice pained. 

He came closer to the bed, lingering quietly beside Bilbo. “There are things left I must say to you, Bilbo Baggins.”

Bilbo turned abruptly, his face creasing slightly in pain as his wounds pulled. “Thorin?”

“I did not journey here merely to see you awaken. I have not yet told you my true purpose.” Bilbo waited, his face partly closed off.

Thorin launched himself into his tale, unsure if he could unbend himself enough to tell it. “I left Dain as my steward in Erebor so I could attend to you. Gandalf told me you were badly wounded; I thought you had merely left without notice because of my words. I cannot tell you the fear I have lived with, believing you near death of late. If there was one thing left I could tell you before you passed it was this: long have I carried the secret of my affections for you, not wishing to cause any undue rift between our company upon our quest. I had thought to crown you with mithril and gold and share all the years of my life with yours, if you so willed, once we had forced the dragon from our halls. We parted badly and I feared we would never be reunited.  There is little that can so capture a dwarf, Bilbo Baggins, and so blind him to the truth, save the most fierce of passions. You are the bravest of creatures and I have wronged you many times in our quest. I cannot be humble, nor can I be subtle. It is my deepest desire to learn of your own desires of me. If I make improper advance, you must tell me. No oath is laid upon you to bear my affection if you are not yourself compelled.” Bilbo lay quiet, his face frozen. Thorin saw the puffed skin around his eyes and moved closer; he had never known Bilbo to weep before, and knowing he was the cause made him wish ever more to comfort the hobbit. 

“And...” Bilbo cleared his throat, his face coloring. “If I am so compelled?”

Thorin came closer yet, a swell of hope filling him. He looked into Bilbo’s eyes and saw what he had long feared and desired. “I would give all that I have to call you my own.”

“Hobbits are not used to being possessed,” Bilbo demurred a moment later, smoothing the silk at his waist. Thorin sat upon the bed, taking Bilbo’s hands in his. He laid a courtly kiss upon the backs of Bilbo’s hands, then slyly caught Bilbo’s lips with his own before withdrawing. “The same could be said for dwarves of hobbits.” Bilbo looked at him, seeing the smile in his eyes. 

“Do I possess you?” He asked, uncertain. Thorin laid their foreheads together, his heart beating a thunderous ode. 

“I have never been so caught,” Thorin admitted, curling their hands together.

The smile that broke his stern expression matched Bilbo’s own as the hobbit let out a small noise of contentment. “I feared you had come out of requirement,” Bilbo admitted. His words burst from him then. “You are what drew me back from the Green Lands. I heard your voice as if from the spoke of a great wheel, and at the base of a well of darkness I heard you speak again. I owe you my life, Thorin.” Bilbo timidly tilted his head against Thorin’s, their lips meeting a moment. Thorin caught Bilbo’s face between his hands, stroking a thumb across the hobbit’s skin. 

“I believe there has been enough debt between us to pass both our lifetimes. Shall we be equals? Will you be my partner henceforth?” 

Bilbo ran a hand over Thorin’s travel-worn shirt, his expression intent. "I did not set out to find a partner when I signed your contract. Gandalf told me I would not be the same hobbit when I found my way home again, and he was certainly right. The Bilbo whom you first met would never have come so far and still wish for more." Bilbo noticed Thorin's question and continued. "I cannot possibly hold any sway above the nobles of your realm, but I dearly wish to remain in your company. I think I only truly began to live when I ran out my door after you. It seems that's nearly all I'm capable of doing, running after you."

"Not nearly," Thorin admonished quietly, thinking of Bilbo's fierce stand against Azog, and the wounds he had taken from the battle at Erebor.

Bilbo smiled at the dwarf king. "No, not nearly." Thorin watched the heat rise in Bilbo's face as the hobbit ran a tentative hand over the leather on his breast. "I don't believe I'm quite done with you yet, Thorin Oakenshield." Thorin waited quietly and was rewarded by the gleam of affection that filled his burglar’s eyes. “Where do I sign?” Thorin grinned at the wickedness of Bilbo’s voice and kissed his beloved.

No one disturbed them for long hours, through which they lay together, speaking softly. Thorin stroked a hand through Bilbo’s hair, careful of the bandaged, tender area where had been wounded. He listened as Bilbo described the Green Lands to him, and Thorin told Bilbo of Erebor and the rebuilding of Dale. And finally, as light began to fill the sky once more, Thorin drew up his strength and asked Bilbo the question that had loomed before him since Bilbo first admitted his affections.

“Will you come to Erebor with me?” Bilbo turned his face against Thorin’s chest to look up at him.

“I had thought to return to the Shire for so long...” Thorin hid his disappointment, knowing there was little he could do to bar Bilbo from returning to his birthplace. “I would that you could come with me, one last time, to Bag End. It would do the folk there well to see a wedding.” 

“A wedding?” Thorin felt himself grow giddy, ignoring the part of himself that quailed at the undignified emotion. “You would marry me?”

Bilbo coughed slightly, his face coloring further. It seemed his hobbit had been perpetually crimson while he lay in Thorin's embrace. “Oh, well... I had presumed you would make an honest hobbit of me before my kin-”

“There is nothing I would like more,” Thorin interrupted eagerly, clasping Bilbo’s shoulder tightly.

Bilbo smiled widely. “Good. I can’t wait to see the faces of those bloody Sackville-Bagginses when their relation marries into royalty.”

“And a dwarf at that,” Thorin added, grinning. Though he was little enough for games and mischief, the idea of scandalizing a few well-to-do hobbits such as Bilbo had once been filled him with a great sense of pleasure.

“I would choose no other,” Bilbo said, pressing his forehead into Thorin’s chest. A moment later he withdrew, gazing at Thorin with a wrinkled nose. “Er- not to be rude, Thorin, but when _did_ you last bathe?” 

“Are you commenting upon my state, hobbit?” Thorin growled, half playful, half offended.

“My dear King,” Bilbo began, sweetly, “you _reek_.”

Bilbo laughed as Thorin muttered indignantly, letting himself out of Bilbo’s embrace. “Where are you going?” He asked, his smile bright.

“You need to rest. And I,” Thorin grimaced, ignoring Bilbo’s laugh, “require a bath.” He leaned down to Bilbo, laying a gentle kiss upon his brow. He straightened and smiled down at his betrothed.

“What is it? You’re giving me a funny look,” Bilbo asked, suspicious.

“You are my betrothed, Bilbo Baggins,” he replied, enjoying the look of flustered pleasure on the hobbit’s face. "I must warn you, Bilbo," Thorin began, turning to engage Bilbo. "My people will desire us to perform a Dwarvish union in my Hall, despite this first ceremony." Bilbo smiled wearily.

"I expected as much. Two weddings," Bilbo mused, turning his gaze upward. "Dwarves and ceremony," he remarked, ignoring Thorin's momentary indignant expression.

Bilbo smiled, settling back against the cushions as Thorin left the room. The soft light of dawn filled the room and he drank a small amount of the herbal drink the healers had left for him, grimacing at the taste. The thought hit him like a hammer and he could not hide his delighted expression. “I’m getting married,” he told the room. “To a King.” Though he knew the engagement to be swift, he could find no fault in his acceptance. Both he and Thorin had loved one another far longer than most hobbits courted one another. And he had no comparison for Dwarvish romantic standards. He rather doubted that most 'proper' dwarves would so speedily rush into partnership, but he was glad Thorin had chosen _him_ to be improper with.

For the first in a long while, his dreams were peaceful, and he did not search within them. There was no need; he had finally found what he was looking for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got a little sappy. I TRIED NOT TO.  
> Also, I am getting the terrible feeling that I'm heading into OOC territory. I'm going to do my best to keep from making things implausible!


	4. There & Back Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, guys I'm a huge douche. Like... a GIANT DOUCHE.  
> I'm so incredibly sorry this took so long. Absolutely no excuses here.  
> I am hard at work on the next chapter, and it should be about this length or longer, so I hope that makes up at least a little bit for the delay!!
> 
> P.S. Due to things this chapter is now not M rated. THINGS OK
> 
> Also, your beautiful majestic comments make me die, thank you so much for having feelings about my crazy ideas.

Thorin walked from Bilbo’s chamber, his mind in a state of complete and utter shock. He’d done it. He’d actually gotten the hobbit to somehow agree to be his consort. And Bilbo had been the one to suggest marriage! Thorin smiled at the memory, rubbing a hand over his jaw as he walked.  He winced as the slight breeze of his passage brought the scent of his skin to him. Bilbo was, unfortunately, correct. He did smell rather unsavory; six weeks or so of hard travel with few stops and less bathing would do that to a dwarf, he supposed. 

However, bathing was not the only thing on his mind. Now that he’d accomplished his deed, how should he break the news to his companions? Doubtless he should wait for morning, at least, but during breakfast? After? Wake them all with the news? And above all, his dwarvish heritage demanded he lay visible claim to his mate lest another suitor offer opposition. Although, he was fairly certain that Bilbo Baggins would have several severe words for him if he offered such explanations for the various... Actions he might attempt upon his beloved.

Thorin wondered and worried and nearly ran into Dwalin, who stood silent sentinel without his door. 

“Thorin,” the larger dwarf began, greeting him with a nod. 

“Dwalin.” Thorin squared his shoulders, feeling some of his inane thoughts vanish at the stern countenance of one of his oldest companions. Dwalin was one of few he felt truly reliable to a point, a dwarf he had charged to death with, a dwarf he respected above many, save perhaps for Balin, Dwalin’s own brother. 

“The halfling?” Though Thorin drew no attention to it, he saw and appreciated the fierceness of Dwalin’s concern, though his tone was gruff.

“He lives. Barely.” Thorin soured at the thought, hands tight at his sides. He walked into the courtyard, seeking the familiar marble bench Balin had set upon earlier. Dwalin fell into step beside him, the mail they both still wore heralding their approach. 

It took Thorin a moment to conjure the words. They were bitter on his tongue and yet he found himself spilling all of his long tale under Dwalin’s attention. 

“He stopped breathing when I approached. I had to breathe for him and even then, he did not return swiftly.” 

“Gandalf told us he was very far away,” Dwalin interjected, heavy forearms crossed over his chest. Thorin was ashamed to admit to himself that he had not expected this level of sincerity in his fierce friend. He above all others should know that all creatures contain unknown depths.

“Indeed?” Thorin had been unaware that Gandalf had arrived so soon after his company, and felt some small amount of shame at his carelessness.

“It seems there are many who would not lose our burglar.” Thorin flexed his hands against his coat and nodded sharply under Dwalin’s gaze. 

“When he arose, he did not recall my face.” Thorin let out a small bark of laughter at that, remembering Bilbo clinging first out of fear of Thorin, and then from the elves. “The elves burst in, assuming I was wronging their patient, but he would not have them. I left, fearing there was no way forward once he spoke his mind. I wounded him greatly when last we met. I had not expected him to be so gentle toward me.” Thorin let out a heavy breath.

“Aye, then you fled, or so Balin tells me,” Dwalin smiled, patting a heavy hand over Thorin’s shoulder. 

Thorin scowled at the cloudless sky above, muttering a soft grievance. “Balin is most eloquent with his words.” He paused, uncertain how he should tell Dwalin of his newfound partnership. Already he felt himself halved in his thought of their conversation, fixated upon the growing apprehension of becoming a suitor. Not once in his life had he taken a suit or attempted to court another; his naïveté made him uncertain of what he could offer his mate. Finally, he breathed deep of the night air and gazed solemnly at his friend. “I returned and asked him to share my life.”

Dwalin stilled, his eyes flickering in the soft lamplight that yet illuminated the courtyard. “His answer?”

Softly, Thorin recounted.“He said yes.” Dwalin embraced him then, their foreheads pressed tight together as they clasped one another’s temples. The warrior dwarf let him go slowly, sitting back against the bench.

“I wondered when you would ask, but I had not thought the hobbit would be as certain, fidgety little thing that he is.” Thorin grimaced at Dwalin, forgoing any further argument at Dwalin’s raised eyebrows.

“He asked me to marry him,” Thorin continued, watching as a smooth furred cat stretched across the courtyard, draped over the crossed arms of a stern elven statue. The cat yawned and dropped to the ground, tail aloft. “I said yes. And then asked him to marry me, in turn.”

Dwalin shook his head, his expression one of indulgence. “So we’re to host two grand weddings then? Won’t Dís throw you a grand old party, laddy.” 

Thorin paused at that. Dís. His sister would undoubtedly have reached Erebor now from Ered Luin, and would be roaringly furious if she was not hastily informed of Thorin’s impending union. “I’ll let her plan mine, but I imagine the Shire have quite the different occasion set in store for us,” he said wryly. 

Dwalin rose and clasped Thorin’s forearm. “I’m glad of your happiness, brother. When will you announce?”

Thorin sighed and stroked a hand over his beard. “On the morrow, before we break our fast. Bilbo will not be able to journey for some weeks, I imagine. In the meantime, I need to find a forge. And a bath,” he added, absentmindedly, already lost in the designs forming in his mind.

“Forge?” Dwalin paused at the edge of the courtyard. Thorin turned and to his amusement, the warrior dwarf was awkwardly standing stiff whilst the cat from the statue purringly wound through his armored legs, fiercely rubbing its cheeks over Dwalin’s spiked greaves. 

He stifled a laugh. “I want my betrothed to be known.”

Dwalin nodded knowingly, his expression stoic even as he winced (the cat was now climbing him like a spiked pole). Thorin took pity and strode forward, gently taking the cat by its scruff and nodding Dwalin to his room. 

“What to do with you, eh?” He shook the cat slightly, a small smile lighting on his lips as the young creature let out a delighted chirp, batting him with heavy paws.

It took some minutes to maneuver, with a cat in one hand and attempting to open a heavy wooden door with the other, but minutes later, he placed the purring creature beside his sleeping burglar, admiring the small silver bead the hung from a simple chain about the cat’s neck. It was taken from his own braids; he hoped Bilbo would appreciate the gift when he awoke.

Taking care not to disturb the quiet, he gazed upon Bilbo’s face until the door shut between them, eagerly anticipating the morning.

He grimaced as he lifted a corner of his coat, taking note of the stiffness of the fabric. It seemed he may have to suffer the cloth of elves for a day, if he wished not to give offense to his new lover’s nose. 

 

* * *

 

Bilbo awoke in a rush, opening his eyes blearily and grimacing at the heady taste of herbs in his mouth. A small sound caught his attention and he looked down. There, curled at his hip, head delicately resting atop the covers on his thigh, lay a marmalade colored cat, large amber eyes fixed on him. He smiled and gave the cat his hand to sniff before it rubbed him with its cheek. As it turned its neck to get behind its ears rubbed as well, Bilbo heard a small tinkle of metal and looked at the small thread he found suddenly thrust between his fingers. 

It took a moment for Bilbo to realize what he held. He gently undid the clasp and unwound the strands from the cat’s neck, ignoring its demands for more attention. The sunlight caught the bright gleam of silver and he stared in awe at the intricate little bead that swung on the length of chain in his fingers.

Bilbo’s hands shook as he lifted his neck enough to do the clasp behind him. He settled the bead against his skin, feeling the small weight rest along his chest. He smiled a watery thanks at the cat, whom he resumed petting, to its obvious delight.

A while later, they were disturbed by a soft rap at the door. Bilbo called a greeting and the door opened to reveal the elf-woman from the night before, her hair smoothly woven away from her face and neck.

“I hope I have not disturbed you, Bilbo Baggins, but your company are becoming anxious to attend to you. However, they are... Energetic,” she continued, her lips pressed together. Though elven expression was often difficult to concisely interpret, Bilbo thought the thin line of her mouth gave enough hint that she found the idea of ten or so excited dwarves crowding the bedside of a patient quite intolerable. 

“I think I’ll be fine,” he assured her. Her gaze went to his hand, and to the orange cat still cradled at his side.

“I see Miaulin has found you.” She came to the bedside and put her hand out to the cat, who stared at her before approaching. She said something quickly, quietly in Sindarin he could not quite decipher and a small biscuit in her open palm disappeared in Miaulin’s pink mouth before the healer moved away again. 

“I’m sorry, does this cat belong to anyone?” Bilbo reached for Miaulin, meaning to hand the cat up to the healer.

“No, she does as she wills, though she has better knowledge than most when it comes to straying where she is not intended.” The last was said with a slight exaggeration, and the cat let out a small hiss. Bilbo looked in surprise at the cat next to him. 

“Er-”

“I shall leave you, Master Baggins, however, I ask that you limit your time with your companions. Your wounds yet require time to mend, and any amount of... Interaction, will not aid in their recovery.” Bilbo nodded awkwardly, ignoring her distaste for his friends.

She laid another brimming cup of herbal draught on his table before she left, the door slightly ajar behind her. 

A small murmur of voices came to him from without and he struggled to sit up, Miaulin jumping to the bedside chair to watch his progress. The door opened and Bilbo turned swiftly, embarrassed at still being abed.

Instead of the company he expected, however, he was greeted by quite another companion. The wizard had no need to stoop to get through this doorway, and he seemed quite unperturbed by Miaulin’s irritated hiss as he shooed her from the chair with his wide, pointed hat. Gandalf sat in the now cat-free chair, smoothing his hat before he spoke. 

“I see you’ve returned, young burglar. And how was your journey?” Gandalf made no hint of tone or implication, and Bilbo sighed with frustration.

“You needn’t be so cryptic with me, Gandalf. I’m alive, and I have you and many others besides to thank. I’m quite useless after all, it seems.” Before he could look away, a large, gentle hand enveloped his own.

“My dear Bilbo, if there is anything I have learned from our time together, it is this: though you may not charge into battle or defeat any enemy you find, you always find a way to persevere. There were no moments within this quest in which you were not needed. The others have all conceded to this; why not you?” Gandalf’s eyes were kind beneath his stern brow. Bilbo met his glance and clasped Gandalf’s hand in return.

“It is only a small wound to my pride, but I doubt I will ever be able to dismiss it. To have fallen out of favor and all friendship and then to cause such fuss and worry over injury- I feel utterly responsible that I fell in battle and caused such strife.” Bilbo pressed a careful hand to his front, recalling the wide seams that had been laid open in his flesh many months before, yet healing to this day.

“Not all who fight are meant to win, Bilbo. There are no set paths in this world, and you have done your very best to find your own way. Something, I understand, another has found desirable in his own turn.” Bilbo flushed at Gandalf’s gentle words, and their meaning.

“I wonder if I am not too common for one such as him,” Bilbo said quietly, turning to gaze out between the wide pillars of the room. The sky beyond was blue and sparsely clouded, a few birds flitting through the air providing small snatches of noise.

Gandalf scowled and the air darkened for a moment. “You are many things, Master Baggins, and common most certainly is not among them. Thorin Oakenshield is lucky to have gained such a consort,” the wizard sat back, grumbling to himself. He brightened, however, when he retrieved his pipe from within his robes.

The smell of Old Toby filled Bilbo’s room and he gazed questingly at Gandalf’s pipe. The wizard looked at him from beneath his brows, blowing a particularly complicated bird that winged away into the garden. “I am told that smoking is most detrimental to the healing of wounds. However, I am inclined to believe that a hobbit newly engaged should partake in a little celebration.” Gandalf handed Bilbo the pipe, at which he reverently puffed.

Bilbo felt his eyelids gradually dropping before a thought occurred to him. He sat up slowly, passing Gandalf his now-empty pipe. “Gandalf. I have a very great favor to ask of you.”

“And what might that be?” The wizard shifted, leaning on his elbows to come closer to Bilbo. The hobbit twiddled his fingers indelicately together, debating whether he was being inclusive or just completely ignorant of Gandalf’s particular brand of tradition.

“I was wondering... If you might officiate. I mean, of course... If you don’t have the time, I don’t even know if wizards _can_ officiate weddings, I hope-”

Gandalf cut him off with a firm grip on his shoulder, and when he looked, there in the old, gruff wizard’s eye was a single, shining answer.

 

* * *

 

Thorin was not to attend Bilbo that morning, or the next, or the day after, but Bilbo was indeed visited by all the others who had returned to Rivendell with their King. Dwalin and Balin visited together with Gloin and Oin, who congratulated him on his impending marriage. Now that he was to be integrated into Dwarven culture and the royal line of Durin, it seemed the more askance elder dwarves now found him quite approachable. Indeed, they spent much of their visits lecturing him on the nature of Dwarven culture and the customs a King Consort would be expected to fulfill.

These visits were often a tad awkward, however, and usually did not last very long. The more enjoyable visits, however, were when Bofur, Bombur, Ori, Nori, and Dori visited him. The three brothers and the two cousins kept him well entertained (Bombur snuck him many wonderful dwarven snacks) with tales of Ered Luin, Erebor (and Dale), and then, finally, he was told the one thing he had yet to find out.

Bofur was merrily laughing about some tale of dwarrows in Ered Luin and them running to find some hoard of gold or other, “- and Lady Dís gave them the worst hiding I’ve seen since me own father tanned my hide for breaking my mother’s wedding vase!”

Bilbo perked up, having heard that name many times over in the conversation at this point. “Lady Dís?”

The dwarves nodded sagely, smiling fondly. Ori piped up from the corner, where he was steadfastly knitting what looked like a suspiciously hobbit-sized sweater. “Oh yes, Thorin’s younger sister Dís is quite popular with the dwarrows, even if she is fierce as Mahal.” The younger dwarf shuddered, and the elder dwarves in the room chuckled, obviously of some fond memory of Ori himself getting such a scolding.

“Er- is she... What I mean... Does she like-”

“Hobbits?” Bofur interrupted, smiling. “Well, who knows Mister Baggins, I guess you’ll have to wait and meet her yourself! I daresay she’ll be in charge of much of the ceremonies at Erebor.” 

Bilbo smiled uneasily, unable to move past the conversation, even as the other dwarves happily chattered about him. 

A while later, the same elf-woman appeared, thin expression once more present as she herded the dwarves from his room. She did not outright scold him for letting them stay so late, but she blew out his candles and dimmed his fire with a quiet indignance that he felt embarrassed to note. She left when he downed the last of another cup of herbs (the third that day), and nodded to him as she closed the door quietly behind her.

Bilbo sank into the pillows, feeling extremely alone. He hadn’t seen Thorin in three days, and now this news of Thorin’s fierce younger sister, this Lady Dís... He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. Even the friendly cat who’d visited him, Miaulin, had been shooed away at last by his healer. He was loathe to admit to himself how attached he had become to the cat in a matter of days.

Earlier that day he’d gotten out of bed, despite commands otherwise, and had carefully bathed himself with water from the clear well outside his room. It felt wonderful to be free of the grimy sensation that long sleep and bed-rest left, and he spent a luxurious amount of time after his impromptu bath sitting with his feet in the water, his nightshirt tucked up around his thighs. The delicate wind of Imladris teased at the opened collar of his shirt and he sighed at the pull of the bandages about his chest. He was nearly healed, he could feel it, despite the repeated titters and furrowed brows of his elven attendants.

The rents in his chest were still not fully sealed, but they were healing extremely quickly now that he was awake and able to take full draughts of herbs that could not be easily administered to a catatonic body. 

He sat for a long while, feet lazily stirring the surface of the well, listening to a soft, barely audible sound. It grew louder until the house seemed to resound with it, and Bilbo longed to run through the halls to find whatever was making that awful, continuous ringing. Finally, it stopped. Bilbo, feeling revealed in the sudden silence, got up laboriously, and made his way back into the shade and dark of his room. Despite an entire wall being open to the air and garden, Bilbo felt as if he were in a darkened cave, stuck with no true escape. He longed to be in open fields, long plains and forests, a good walking stick in hand and a full stomach before him.

Now that Bombur had been bringing him daily snacks, he was beginning to truly fill out again (the elves stuck to strict, three meal a day regimens that could not possibly supplement a hobbit’s traditional diet) but he was still deemed unwell enough to travel.

Bilbo wondered if he would ever leave. Perhaps it was all just a wonderful dream, and he was still lying prone, dead to the real world. 

These thoughts soured him as he recalled the day. Bilbo came to himself suddenly at a noise from the door. He sat bolt upright, ignoring the bright spark of pain in his front as he called out a tentative greeting.

The door opened and there, grinning, wearing what looked like finely made elven cloth, and wretchedly soot-covered, stood Thorin. The dwarf had dirt across his forearms, bared by his rolled back sleeves, and he wore no coat or mail. The bare skin and hair at the open laces of his shirt made Bilbo’s stomach drop appealingly and he coughed slightly in effort to dispel his blush.

Thorin crossed the room to him and said, breathlessly, “Bilbo. I apologize for making you wait. This is for you.” The King opened his palm, and there, shining like fire, lay the finest band of white gold that a person could ever lay eyes upon. Intricately woven and laden with Cirth runes, Bilbo realized where Thorin had been these past days. Thorin knelt before the bed, and Bilbo let out a small cry of emotion, surprising Thorin as he rolled from the bed, staggering toward the dwarf. Thorin caught him and held Bilbo to him, his arms wrapping completely around the frail creature. Bilbo breathed in the warm embrace of his betrothed, burying his face in the skin at Thorin’s chest. Finally, they parted, and with the grace an elf could envy, Thorin knelt again, taking Bilbo’s hands in his own. He took a deep breath and then his deep voice filled the whole of the room.

“I would take you to my breast and call you mine own, for ages to come and ages past, my life and my line are yours to call and defend. If ever I fail you, amends shall be made, and love and honor will return me always to your side. Will you join with me and share all the years of my life?”

Bilbo stood with his mouth slightly ajar, amazed at the eloquent, poetic proposal. No doubt, it was some formal Dwarf ritual binding he would muck up, but the sight of Thorin’s blue, earnest gaze brought these thoughts to heel. Thorin waited patiently, though Bilbo saw the longing in him. “Yes. Yes. A thousand times, so!” Thorin lovingly slid the ring onto Bilbo’s left hand, admiring the way the band sat flush against his betrothed’s skin. Then he stood, catching Bilbo in his arms and turning in a full circle, laughing in relief and joy. Bilbo held on and smiled, wondering if he were bold enough to press kisses to Thorin’s face.

Then the dwarf set him down and Bilbo felt a low flutter in his stomach at the heat in Thorin’s eyes. “Oh,” he said, meekly. 

The deep evening light had given way to night, and the gleam of embers in the hearth caught every silver strand in Thorin’s hair. His eyes shone blue fire; he looked every bit a king.

“Have you no words, my halfling?” Thorin teased, their breath mingling as Thorin leaned their foreheads together. Bilbo shuddered and clutched at Thorin’s waist, grounding himself as he felt large hands stroke across his back. 

“None,” he admitted, a long moment later. “There are none to tell you how I care for you. How I think of you.” Bilbo looked into Thorin’s very blue eyes and felt quite right, held in the arms of a dwarven king, in the halls of an elven lord. “Yes,” he remarked, “this is what I was searching for.” A smile crookedly spread on his lips.

Thorin took his face in his hands, cupping the back of Bilbo’s neck and head. His touch was exceedingly gentle, tender, exquisitely caring. A slew of words poured from Thorin’s lips as he kissed Bilbo, again, and again, stroking the hobbit’s cheek with his thumb. Bilbo understood none of them, and after another long moment passed between them, Thorin’s arms clasping Bilbo to him, he quietly inquired. “What did you say?”

“I called you my _âzyungâl_ , my lover, and I named you _haban_ , my gem. My _khiduzur ghivasha_. _Melekûnuh_ ,” Thorin added in a low growl, leaving the Common Tongue altogether, turning his cheek against Bilbo’s, his beard softly bristling over Bilbo’s smooth cheek. 

Bilbo attempted to say something, but it came out a hoarse rasp instead. Thorin had utterly driven him from speech. 

Then he felt himself being lifted, and softness met his back. Thorin rose above Bilbo, his gaze indescribable. He tucked a stray curl away from Bilbo’s brow, then kissed the hobbit once more. “You should rest,” he admonished Bilbo, still smiling.

“I was resting,” Bilbo replied, turning his hand in the light, and hiding a smile at the fierceness of Thorin’s affection, now given splendid form on his hand.

“Sleep. Perhaps soon we will be able to return you to your beloved Bad End.” Thorin tucked the silken sheets about Bilbo’s frame. 

“Bag End,” Bilbo corrected, catching Thorin’s hand with his own. The dwarf looked at him and was surprised by the depth of emotion that welled in Bilbo’s eyes. “I _have_ missed you, Thorin. I would not be parted from you again.”

Thorin returned Bilbo’s hand, but not before giving it a tender, bristly kiss. “And we shall not. Call and I will come. Dream, and I will be with you, _melekûnuh_.”

The room felt too warm, stifling, when Thorin left him, and Bilbo spent a long while shifting and breathing heavily before his heart ceased to race. 

 

* * *

 

A week later, Bilbo was deemed ready for travel. The healers were reluctant to give him into the company of travelers- and what they clearly meant was the company of rough looking dwarves. 

Thorin and the others made no remark upon this, but there was a palpable coolness between the Company and their hosts.

Gandalf had gone into council with Lord Elrond the night before they were set to leave, something to do with Dol Goldur, and the Lady Galadriel, but Bilbo had heard no in-depth account of the event and put it from his mind. 

Each day that had passed had put him in a further state of anxiety, anxious to return home, to see his beloved Shire once again. 

When the bright sun crested the lowest hill in the valley of Imladris, the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, absent Fili and Kili, set out back towards the Shire. They were sent off in quiet splendor by Elrond and the children of his house, who sent gifts with Bilbo and Thorin in anticipation of their marriage. Thorin had received a mate to Orcrist, a smaller, stouter blade that could be strapped flat along his thigh, and a sheath for both blades, engraved in mithril with Cirth runes that told the lineage of Durin. Although Thorin still felt distant from the elves, the gratitude Bilbo saw for Elrond’s gift was evident. 

A slender elf maid, with two alike brothers behind her, came to him, offering a silk wrapped parcel. Inside, Bilbo found himself brought to tears by the exquisite gentle-hobbit clothing, spun of the smoothest silk and thread. A fine new waistcoat with silvered buttons, and a loose sleeved shirt for underneath, and the finest pair of deep burgundy trousers he had lain eyes on comprised the parcel. The lady, who named herself Arwen, laid a soft kiss upon his brow and wished him the happiest years to come. Bowing his head, he murmured his thanks, slightly stunned at the expense the elves had seen fit to bestow upon him.

Mounted on stout ponies, the Company left the Vale, riding east to the Shire. The journey took a little over a fortnight, taking into account the resting of their mounts, and the still healing wounds their burglar carried. Although Bilbo complained at first of their pace and insisted he could maintain a higher speed, the others in the Company merely shook their heads and glanced nervously at Thorin, whose thunderous disapproval hung heavily over them when they indulged Bilbo’s suggestions. 

“You are not yet fully healed,” Thorin hissed quietly to Bilbo, one night after their supper. The others were engaged around the fire and some had already dropped off to sleep, but Thorin had guided Bilbo from the main circle of their company to speak in private with him.

“You forget the fortitude of hobbits, Thorin.” Bilbo replied, his irritation having only continued to mount the further they got and the slower they went.

“I forget nothing, _melekûnuh_. I think only of you.” Thorin swept a curl from Bilbo’s forehead and brought him close.

Still frustrated, Bilbo plucked at the fur of Thorin’s coat, letting out an irritated sigh. “I think of home,” he admitted after a while.

“Does nothing else occupy your thoughts?” Bilbo lifted his head and regarded Thorin. The dim light made it impossible to tell the expression of his betrothed. 

“I am preoccupied by a great deal. My home, my wounds, my family...and you.” Thorin rested their foreheads together, the soft puff of his breath warming Bilbo’s cheeks.

Bilbo tilted his head to embrace the dwarf, but Thorin skillfully evaded him, pressing instead a small kiss to Bilbo’s cheek. Bilbo smiled shortly and pulled away, feigning tiredness. As he stalked to his bedroll, he ignored the bereft look in Thorin’s eyes as the dwarf followed after him.

That was another thing which plagued his thoughts. Since that night in Rivendell, Thorin had not again made advances upon him of such passionate nature. Deep inside himself, he prayed that dwarves were not sedate in their passion, that Thorin would again find fire with which to woo him. As much as Bilbo was proud of his spotless reputation as a modest gentlehobbit, he was more fond of the prospect of embracing the one he had nearly died for, and whose ring shone openly on his hand. Thorin’s absent touches were sorely missed, and he felt a great worry that a void was opening between them on this journey. Perhaps he had misjudged the depth of Thorin’s affection...

With these troubling thoughts, Bilbo got no rest that night, and was slow to set out the next morning. 

Two days later, just as the sun had begun to dip below the horizon, they crossed a low ridge and there, spreading out wide and lush before them, lay the great, green land of the Shire.

Bilbo was not ashamed of his emotions, and allowed himself a few tears at the sight of his homeland. Now, if only at a fraction of the intensity of emotion the others may have felt, he understood the soul-deep ache that plagued all those who had gone far from home.

To Bilbo’s utter frustration, Thorin insisted upon making camp there that night, as Hobbiton was still a good three or four hours ride distant. Although the King lay close to him after the fire was fed and all had lain down to sleep, Bilbo unkindly turned his back in his bedroll, teeth gritted at his childish reaction. Above all, he wished he could bridge the small gap between them, but he felt some invisible barrier there which forbade him from partaking in the closeness of his betrothed.

When he woke, dawn light and cool dew upon his cheek, a warm weight lay across his middle. Bilbo glanced down and then turned his head awkwardly to see behind him. There, brows furrowed and stern as ever, slept Thorin. His hand curled across Bilbo’s stomach in his dreams.

Before his good sense could return to him, Bilbo turned abruptly beneath the blankets and kissed Thorin’s lax mouth, his heart fluttering at the scrape of beard against his lips. 

Rough hands grasped him and Bilbo’s mouth opened in surprise as Thorin separated from him gently, his lips faintly red. A long moment passed in silence as they regarded one another, until at last, Thorin spoke.

“Soon,” he promised, his blue eyes earnest. Bilbo caught his breath and nodded shortly, slightly mollified. 

Perhaps he had not misjudged Thorin, after all.

 

* * *

Above all, hobbits dearly loved their homes. Bilbo was quite proud of his family’s home, in particular. Bag End was beautifully arranged and furnished, with the most splendid of family heirlooms within. 

And it was all being auctioned off when he arrived.

Those present had gone silent when Bilbo had walked in, a tall, armored dwarf at his side, both of their expressions turning thunderous in an instant. Behind them stood another ten dwarves, equally forbidding, disapproval radiating from each figure.

A small group of hobbits at the front turned and gave him a foul look, but the instant their eyes met Thorin’s, they paled quickly. 

“Master Baggins is back,” cried a young hobbit from the silence of the room, her face beaming. Bilbo twitched slightly, a deep feeling rising inside him. His fingers tightened and his breath felt short. A soft touch against the back of his hand loosened the tension in his lungs, and he gazed gratefully at Thorin. 

The King stepped forward, towering over some of the shorter hobbits, his majestic stature lending his voice heft as he demanded: “What have you done?”

“The auction of the estate of Bilbo Baggins is fully legal, I would have you know,” piped up a severe looking hobbitess, standing firmly in front of her husband and son. 

“Lobelia,” Bilbo said, his voice more of a hiss than Thorin had ever heard.

“Bilbo Baggins is alive and well,” Thorin said, stiffly. He came towards Lobelia, his mouth tight.

“Well, young Bilbo should have known better than to leave his estate unguarded for so long. It was only by my family’s insistence that this event did not take place sooner. You should thank us, Bilbo, else the only thing you’d be coming back to would be empty pasture.” Lobelia’s face creased in a vicious smile. Her husband and son, Otho and Lotho, stood firmly next to her, arms crossed over their well-fed stomachs. The hobbits closest to them shifted away at the venom in Lobelia’s speech, gazing apprehensively at the taller stranger in their midst.

Thorin turned and gestured to Bilbo, his mail gleaming in the afternoon light. “Take care how you address my betrothed. This home has been, and will ever remain under the possession of Bilbo Baggins.” The hobbits around Thorin stared at him, a few looking uncomfortable as he mentioned Bilbo as his intended.

Bilbo flushed at Thorin’s announcement, but took comfort in the excited gasps that emanated from much of the gathering.  But best of all, Bilbo thought, was the curdled way the Sackville-Bagginses’ expressions fouled at Thorin’s words.

Otho stepped forward up to Thorin, gazing a Bilbo spitefully. “Him? Married to a male? And a _dwarf_ , at that,” he sneered.

Bilbo was rather embarrassed by what happened next, but found no need to apologize for it. He stepped forward, smiled serenely at Otho’s incensed face, and planted a well-aimed fist directly into the smug hobbit’s eye.

Thorin’s company laughed and cheered, as well as several hobbits in the room, but most merely looked scandalized. Lobelia let out a shrill cry and ran to collect her fallen husband, her wastrel son not far behind. 

“You are not a gentlehobbit, Bilbo Baggins!” Lobelia raged, bracing Otho between herself and her son. “You are a foul excuse for good company and you’ve always had your head in fantasies. I hope this,” she paused, searching for a suitable description,“dirty creature will make you very happy indeed!” The three hobbits stormed out, Thorin’s company parting ranks slowly for them. 

A small shriek came from outside as Lobelia came face to face with Dwalin, who growled in Kuzdûl at her. Bilbo let out a laugh at his own audacity, shaking out his sore fist. The other hobbits in the room, embarrassed, slowly filed up to him as the tension left the room. 

“I’ll ask my cousin to return with the couch!”

“-the plates....”

“-oh, armchair- we’ll bring that round!”

The numerous reassurances calmed Bilbo’s nerves slightly, and he gave a small smile to his enthusiastic brethren. 

The same small hobbit child from before piped up, her golden hair bouncing on her collar. “A wedding, a wedding!” She screamed, her face bright red with glee. To Thorin’s astonishment, she ran to him, tugging at his knee. Bilbo stifled his laugh at Thorin’s awkward expression, but felt affection bloom in him as the dwarf king knelt to hear her.

She touched his bearded face solemnly, staring into his face with her own very blue eyes. “Are you going to marry Mr. Bilbo?”

Thorin smiled at her, glancing up at Bilbo for a moment. “I am, indeed, little one. And we’re going to need all the help we can get to plan the best wedding for him.”

“I’ll tell mother,” she said, nodding helpfully. Before Thorin could say another word, she kissed him on his cheek and scampered out the door, her golden hair flying.

The other hobbits had already begun to trickle out, and Bilbo was relieved to see that many of the dwarves had gone with them, to ensure that his belongings were returned in a timely manner. Finally, Bilbo was alone with Thorin, in a fairly empty looking Bag End.

“Well,” said Bilbo quietly. “Here we are.” Thorin rose from his knee, his boots echoing heavily in the room. 

Thorin came ever closer to him, and Bilbo took a step back, only to find himself pressed against the bare wall. Thorin took his hand, kissing each of his fingers, then winding their hands together and laying them next to Bilbo’s head on the wall. Bilbo felt his heart begin to pound as Thorin stepped his feet between Bilbo’s own, his weight gently distributed all along Bilbo’s front. Thorin brushed his nose across Bilbo’s, his eyes closed. Bilbo wound his arms to Thorin’s back, his hands still not meeting across the breadth of Thorin’s shoulders.

“Will you not kiss me?” He asked, embarrassed, a moment later, when Thorin had still not engaged him. The dwarf smiled tightly and shook his head, his shoulders held stiff.

“ _Achrâchi gabilul_ , but I cannot touch you.” Bilbo let out a faint groan at Thorin’s words and at the language.

“You’re touching me now! Thorin, you make no sense-”

“No, Bilbo, I cannot _touch_ you. There are not many strict customs in Dwarvish unions, but before the ceremony it is traditional to refrain from one’s partner.” Thorin traced a line in the grain of the wood beside Bilbo’s cheek, pulling his hand away slowly when Bilbo turned his head to meet his touch.

“Why on earth would one do that?” Bilbo demanded, attempting to squirm closer to Thorin. 

“So that there is more fire to share with one another their first night.” Thorin’s gaze was locked upon Bilbo’s, taking in the largeness of his eyes and flush of his skin. Bilbo let out a small noise of recognition, but made no attempt to speak or argue further.

Various shouts and calls came to them from without and Thorin withdrew, pushing himself away from the wall and Bilbo. “Soon,” he promised again as he went to meet the others.

Bilbo fell back breathlessly against the wall, softly banging his fist on the wood by his side. The small weight of Thorin’s chain and bead pressed at his sternum, a continual reminder of what lay within reach. He had not taken off the makeshift necklace since Miaulin had brought it to him that day in Rivendell.

“Confound these dwarves,” he said to himself at last, shaking his head at the situations he managed to get himself into.

 

* * *

 

It appeared that most of his belongings were returned easily, save for a large amount of the silverware he knew for certain Lobelia had personally pocketed. In any case, it wasn’t a large loss, and Bilbo had a certain inkling he would not be spending much time at Bag End in future, in any case.

That night, the dwarves set up around the house, finding a few spare rooms to share, which left the master bedroom for Bilbo and Thorin. As they called their goodnights to one another, Bilbo closed the door to the master suite, turning slowly to face Thorin. His words caught in his throat at the sight before him.

Gleaming in the soft flicker from the low fire in the hearth was an expanse of bare, scarred skin. Thorin had taken his shirt off, apparently in the process of unlacing his boots, as he was bent over, preoccupied. Bilbo cleared his throat guiltily, and watched with interest the sudden twitch in Thorin’s muscles as he responded to the intrusion. 

“Bilbo,” Thorin greeted after a moment, looking through the curtain of his fallen hair over his shoulder at the hobbit. 

“Er,” said Bilbo, eloquently. Thorin straightened, pulling his boots off and flexing his toes as he stood. 

“Have you a bathing room? Or shall I wash outside?” Thorin asked, coming towards Bilbo with a gesture to himself.

“I have a bath,” Bilbo managed, a moment later. When he looked up, Thorin’s face seemed as if it had only just straightened from some other expression. Bilbo guessed he had been smirking or glaring, something involving tension across his mouth. His gaze now fixed on Thorin’s mouth, he found himself utterly surprised when Thorin was suddenly there, the bare length of his arms wrapping around his middle.

“Have I your permission to use it?” Thorin asked, coyly. Bilbo sputtered, distracted at the small pattern the taller dwarf drew at the base of his spine. 

Thorin relented and released Bilbo, to the hobbit’s disappointment. Bilbo went to a corner of the room and pulled back a small standing screen, folding it so it leaned against the wall. A small pipe came from the wall, with faintly gleaming taps on either side. The fire flickered on the well polished stone of the basin. “Shall I?” Bilbo asked, gesturing to the taps.

“Please,” Thorin said. Bilbo turned and knelt, twisting the taps to a wonderfully hot temperature. Absently, he reached into the basket next to the bath and spread a small sprinkle of lavender across the basin, watching as the water began to fill the tub. He turned to speak but immediately turned back to the wall at the sight of Thorin drawing off his trousers. He coughed, embarrassed, and recalled their earlier conversation. “Should I leave you? You said tradition-”

Thorin cut him off, and Bilbo started at the feel of his hands drawing him up, and felt the hardness of bare muscle at his back as he stood. “We can hardly be blamed for foregoing tradition. At least, in part.” Thorin’s voice rasped in Bilbo’s ear. The dwarf pressed a hungry kiss to Bilbo’s shoulder, his hands clasping the hobbit’s hips. 

“Thorin, I don’t-” Bilbo started, guilty at the thought of the rest of their company, only a hallway’s distance away. 

“Relax, _melekûnuh_ ; I only wish to indulge in your presence. This kind of intimacy would be frowned upon, in an intended couple before their nuptials. I am not the same dwarf I once was, however, and I have you to blame, and to thank for that.” Thorin squeezed Bilbo in reassurance before turning to examine the bath.

Bilbo stepped back, feeling a deep heat spreading across his back where he’d been pressed against Thorin. The tub looked about full, and Bilbo leaned again to turn the taps, shutting of the flowing water. Heat steamed off the water and Bilbo slipped a hand beneath the water. He looked up and flushed as he met Thorin’s eyes across the basin.

Thorin stepped into the tub, leaning back against the side of the bath, the ends of his hair trailing in the water. Bilbo, sitting next to the tub now, tentatively raised a hand, stretching toward Thorin’s hair. At the soft sigh Thorin gave at his touch, Bilbo boldly combed his fingers across Thorin’s scalp. 

It would have been an awkward, strange moment were any of the dwarves to burst in upon them in the next hour as Bilbo combed and cleaned his betrothed’s hair, whilst Thorin tended to the rest of his body. The gentle, earthy soap the Shirefolk were fond of smelt wonderful, wafting from his person and Bilbo couldn’t help but wish he, too, were in the bath. He suspected, however, that might go beyond tender into forbidden contact. 

As Thorin bathed himself, Bilbo pottered around the room, stoking the fire, turning the covers on the bed, and finally, laying out large, soft towels for Thorin. He stared for a moment at Thorin’s clothing on the floor. Although they smelt less strongly than they had when Thorin had arrived in Rivendell, due to the washing the elves had put them through, they were beginning to be less pleasant once more. Bilbo hummed and tried to recall where he’d put several unused, large sets of clothing he’d been given several years before.

The water in the tub churned behind him as Thorin left it, dripping heavily, his dark hair waving in gentle tendrils across his shoulders. Bilbo went to him, shyly, and held out a large towel which Thorin took with a nod of thanks. 

Bilbo stared appraisingly at Thorin’s frame, trying to judge his measurements without being improper. Thorin straightened from drying his calves, still naked, and smiled slowly. “I did not realize hobbits were such keen observers.” 

Bilbo flushed and turned around with an indignant mutter. He heard Thorin go to the fire to let himself warm in the cool night air. “Stay in front of the fire and I’ll find you something to wear. That,” he said, nodding to Thorin’s well-traveled clothes, “needs tending before I let you go about Hobbiton. Yes, I suppose it would be a good idea to find the other something as well...” Bilbo trailed from the room, still talking to himself about clothes and waistcoats, and wondering at dwarven measurements.

Thorin shook his head fondly at Bilbo and looked back at the fire. A large armchair sat opposite the bath, closer to the fire; Thorin tugged it closer to the hearth, wrapping a towel around his waist before he sat on the soft chair. He spent a few moments gently parting the tangles in his hair before he scraped a hand across his jaw. His beard had grown a little, since he’d reclaimed Erebor, and he was pleased with the aspect it lent him. He’d never been one for appearances, but having little beard and few noble raiments had caused him to greatly appreciate gaining them now. 

The door to the room opened softly and in came Bilbo, burdened with a veritable heap of clothing. Thorin stood, firmly twisting and tucking his towel so it would stay. He crossed the room and took half the pile from the staggering hobbit, smiling at Bilbo’s relieved expression. 

“What is all this for?” He asked, setting it at the foot of the bed. He lifted a folded shirt, pleased by the deep shade of royal blue that buttoned loosely in the front. 

“It’s for you, and for the others. I might have mentioned, but hobbit weddings can be a... pretentious affair. It wouldn’t do for the host, that’s me, to have his guests looking anything but noble in their dress and bearing. I don’t know if anything I have will fit Bombur, though, or Dwalin, his height....” Bilbo fussed with a shirt, lifting it and staring appraisingly at it. 

Thorin set the shirt down and brought Bilbo’s forehead to his own. “Breathe, _melekûnuh_ , you must not overbear yourself.” Thorin slid a hand beneath the hem of Bilbo’s shirt, running his fingers gently over the thick, newly formed scars. The skin yet carried the dryness remnant of the scab of healing wounds, but as it had become malleable enough not to tear or split, Bilbo had been allowed to travel. Still, Thorin was loathe to see Bilbo so run down with stress, especially the night of his homecoming.

He gathered the clothes and set them aside on a small dresser, making sure they wouldn’t topple in the night. Thorin then guided Bilbo to the bed, his hands moving to Bilbo’s clothes. Bilbo came to his senses then, flushing as he tried to maintain his dignity.

“Bilbo,” Thorin admonished, shaking his head at his hobbit’s obviousness. 

“I apologize that you distract me,” Bilbo hissed, swatting Thorin’s hands away from his shirt. He undressed and quickly put on a loose nightshirt, then crossed to the pile of clothing on the dresser and pulled out a similar looking piece of fabric to give to Thorin. “Here. It’s not much, and it may not fit you, but it’s enough to get you through till morning. Thorin,” Bilbo began again, tentatively. “Where will you sleep? I don’t mind if you stay in my bed-”

Thorin shook his head. “There is but a faint line we cannot cross, Bilbo, but here it is very clear. I shall take the floor, lest my Company decide to... attend us in the morning.” 

Bilbo helped Thorin find his sleeping pack from amongst the pile of the Company’s packs in the dark of the hole, which they took stealthily back to the master bedroom. It needn’t have bothered the others, in any case; the hallways outside of Bilbo’s room simply resounded with the snores of the others. 

A while later, Bilbo lay in bed, turned toward the fire, which had nearly gone out. A little ways away on the floor, between his bed and the door, lay Thorin, his hair spread out on the white of a pillow like some dark wraith. Bilbo shivered at the thought and closed his eyes, knowing without a doubt his patience would be sorely tried before the wedding arrived.

He thought briefly of the small box he’d hidden in his sleeve from Thorin and pushed it under his pillow to retrieve in the morning. It had taken a long minute of searching through his family’s trunk of heirlooms, but there it had been, innocent atop an old tome of family history. He knew it could not match the grandeur of Thorin’s gift to him, but he felt it worthy in any case.

At ease and home at last, Bilbo drifted to sleep, comforted by the quiet presence sleeping at the foot of his bed. 

 

* * *

 

When Bilbo awoke in the morning, it was to the soft song of birds, a low rumble of voices, and the most delicious smell of bacon and eggs and mushrooms, all frying together. He groaned and rolled until he was sitting up, his nightshirt pulled indecently wide across his chest from his tossing and turnings in the night. There was no sign of Thorin, and the pillow and blankets he’d used were folded neatly on the seat of the armchair by the hearth. 

It took him a few embarrassing tries to get vertical from his bed, his chest sorely aching. Something of his activities the night before had recalled some of the pain in his wounds. Glancing at the dresser near the door, Bilbo realized that the clothes he’d lain out were gone, save for the nightshirt Thorin had worn. 

Bewildered, Bilbo dressed quickly, tossing his traveling clothes into the hamper from where they lay on the floor near the bed. As he walked to the kitchen, rubbing his eyes wearily, the smell of bacon and other breakfast things grew stronger. Finally, he turned the corner of his private hall into the main hall and saw again, a horrific abuse of his dishes.

“Really?” He complained, watching as the dwarves tossed one another dishes into his dining room from the kitchen. Bofur paused to clap him on the shoulder, shouting a “good morning” as he did so. 

“Where is Thorin?” Bilbo demanded, feeling a headache coming on. He walked into the kitchen, staring as he watched the usually sedate Bombur bustling around, checking and rechecking dishes, stirring things as he went, and tasting everything in turn. Bombur glanced up and tossed a roll at Bilbo, which he caught by some unknown miracle. Bombur smiled and winked, mouth full, and returned to frying an extremely large omelette, which Bilbo was certain should not have that much sausage in it. 

Confounded, Bilbo tore the roll open and stuffed one half in his mouth. The roll was still hot, and was filled with thick grain and a flavor any hobbit would die for. He licked his lips and devoured the second half, growing slightly less anxious as he did so. 

Bifur walked by him, gesturing wildly at Bilbo. He made out a few signs, and then sighed. “He’s with Gandalf, is he?” Bifur shouted something that sounded affirmative. “Alright, thank you, Bifur. I’ll go and see.” 

He left the dwarves to decimate his newly replenished larder (which he had no notion of how they’d restocked so early), carefully peering out his front door. 

There, sitting on his front garden bench, sat the wizard himself and Thorin, each smoking a pipe, the unmistakeable scent of Old Toby washing over him as he approached. “What on earth-”

“High time you were up and about, Bilbo Baggins, we were beginning to wonder if you ever intended to wake.” Gandalf interrupted him, turning and blowing an ornate rooster which danced around his face before fading into nothing.

“I am awake,” Bilbo said irritably. 

“Bilbo,” Thorin greeted him, putting out his pipe and knocking the burnt remains of pipeweed. He stood and Bilbo gazed appreciatively at the garb the dwarven king had donned.

“You’re wearing-” Thorin nodded, tugging absently at the open front of his vest.

“Dwarves are rather stouter than hobbits, Bilbo, but I trust this will suffice for your kin?” Bilbo’s mouth dried further as he took in Thorin’s bared feet.

“It will,” he croaked, embarrassed at the crook of Gandalf’s eyebrow. He rounded on the wizard with a vengeance. “You knew, didn’t you- the Sackville-Bagginses, and you didn’t tell me?”

“I did not know, Bilbo Baggins, and I’ll thank you not to posit me as your personal caretaker! All I knew was that your return to Bag End would be of some great importance. And now, with you and Thorin arrived, it is indeed an important affair.” Gandalf nodded to the field below them. Bilbo turned at once and groaned, turning away. “No, no... I pleaded, I begged.... Not everyone?” Bilbo asked, hopefully.

Thorin looked rather sheepish at that. “The others are hardly adept secret-keepers, _melekûnuh_ , and your kin are far more insistent than they imagined. It was not hard for any to spread the news. I believe they’ve already started organizing festivities,” Thorin added dryly. 

Bilbo sat down in the grass and put his head on his knees.He had expected some true adversity to his future partnership, not outright, immediate jubilation. “But they don’t even like me,” Bilbo said weakly.

“You underestimate yourself, as I have always said, Bilbo Baggins. Having brought back royalty and giving your neighbors the chance at a grand party is always a reason to like someone, even if they are as troublesome as you,” Gandalf said, his voice neutral, even as his mouth curved around his pipe.

Thorin helped Bilbo to his feet and smiled at the hobbit. Bilbo noticed another thing and let out another sound of surprise. “Your hair?”

“It began to get in the way, and I assume there is much work to be done in organizing before the ceremony can take place. I would not sit idly by.” Thorin turned his head to look again at the field below, and Bilbo found his eyes caught by the tail which Thorin had drawn his dark hair into. It was not displeasing, but Bilbo found it disconcerting to see so much more of Thorin’s skin that he was used to. The dwarf had not buttoned his loose Shire-style shirt very high, and his trousers could hardly conceal the heavy muscles of his thighs with the fabric straining around them. Bilbo’s skin prickled at Thorin’s touch as he led Bilbo back into the hole for breakfast.

Seated around the dining table, each of the dwarves offered them a small toast with some of Bilbo’s father’s wine and the best mead he had tucked away in his storeroom. Bilbo flushed with each successive toast and had to be gently nudged by Thorin to stand and bow his thanks to the Company and offer a fumbling toast in return.

By the time the dishes and food had all been cleared and they had begun to make their way down to the field below, Bilbo was not surprised to already see many hobbits loitering around, helping when they could, and shouting encouragements when they were unoccupied. The entire base of the tree was surrounded by lanterns attached to tall stakes, and the whole of the party field bore the same lanterns, dotted around its perimeter. Younger hobbits were darting around in small packs, lighting each lantern, with their parents huffing after them about safety with fire. Large quantities of flowers were being brought in and arranged, all headed by Bastian Gamgee, the Gaffer at that time. His wife carried their youngest son, Hamfast, in her arms as she talked rapidly with the other hobbit-wives about the field, directing them as they all assisted in placing the flowers. Bilbo turned to look for Gandalf, and was not surprised to see him standing next to Thorin, his face unbearably smug.

“You did it,” he insisted, flinging an arm out at the mass preparations below. 

“I was asked for my assistance by another, Bilbo,” Gandalf said, turning an eye down toward Thorin. Bilbo blinked for a moment and then turned, still looking quite scarlet, to his fiancé. 

“Did you invite everyone?” He asked, dangerously quiet. 

Thorin’s face made no change, but to the other dwarves, the tenseness of his muscles belied his emotions. “I did,” he countered, shamelessly.

“Well,” Bilbo said, turning to look at the field. He shook his head as he watched ever more hobbits fill the field. Now being set up were wide, open sided tents with ivory painted poles and garlands strung about their frames. Beneath, he could see many hobbits rolling or bringing in a wheel-barrel full of kegs of beer, ale, and other drink. The approving murmur of the Company behind him made him relent, if only a little. 

He went back into the hole, taking Thorin with him in order to put on more formal attire. He tenderly unwound the silken parcel the lady Arwen had given him when they had parted in Imladris, struck again by the beauty of the clothes within. He dressed in the burgundy trousers, the silken shirt and the waistcoat with silvered buttons, flushed with pleasure. Thorin conceded to donning a formal, splendidly embroidered vest, but made no other effort to change his appearance. They returned to the lawn where the others were waiting, if impatiently. 

Slowly, they made their way down to the party field. Bilbo and Thorin were approached, however, in a rush by several hobbit women, who excitedly greeted them. One of the smaller girls present was a child called Esmerelda Took, whom Bilbo knew only vaguely. She tugged at Thorin’s trousers until he knelt in the road to meet her.

“You’re not wearing a crown,” she said, her voice petulant as she stared at him, wide eyed. For a child of six, she sounded quite vehement in her opinion of Thorin’s absent crown.

“Here I am not a king,” he told her kindly. She shook her head.

“You needen a crown, Mr. Oakenshield. Otherwise it wouldn’t be proper!” Thorin looked back at Bilbo, desperately. They’d both recognized Esmerelda from the day before as the child who’d been yelling about their marriage, excited beyond belief.

“I believe you’re right, Esmerelda. Thorin does look like something’s missing. Perhaps you could- I hear you are the best of your family at making crowns,” he said, completely serious. Thorin’s face twitched as he tried to hide what he thought of hobbits making crowns.

Esmerelda, however, took the charge with complete understanding. “The best,” she said. “I’ll go make one!”

Bilbo waved her goodbye as she raced back down to the field, hiding his laughter as Thorin brushed the dust of the road from his trousers. “You couldn’t have made mention to her-?” Thorin asked, trailing off. 

Bilbo smiled at his majestic companion, clasping his hand a moment. “Not at all.”

It was possibly the best moment of the day, so far, when Esmerelda found them in the again, in the field, a crown unlike Thorin had seen before clasped delicately in her hands.

“A crown” she said, offering it to him. “The best for you!” Thorin knelt and allowed her to untie his hair. Carefully, she wove the threads of the crown through his hair and stood back to admire her work. 

Even if the jewels were flowers and the strands that bound them were the stems of those flowers, the crown was indeed, quite a sight. Esmerelda had taken care to only gather the smallest, yes completely opened blossoms to weave into her flower crown. Small trails of Baby’s Breath were caught in Thorin’s dark hair, trailing at the back of his head like a small veil. White flowers with golden centers adorned the front and sides of the crown. Against his noble face and splendid Shire clothing, Thorin looked wonderful. Bilbo was struck by the nature of his future partner in that moment. This dwarf, this king, had crossed hundreds of miles to be with him, and to allow Bilbo to tell his entire homeland of their commitment. Bilbo smiled and tucked a flower more becomingly against a strand of hair. Thorin seemed resigned to his fate of looking un-Dwarvish, but did not appear overly distraught about it.

The rest of the afternoon passed in relative quiet, if one counted several hundred hobbits chattering excitedly to one another and pointing at the oddly dressed Dwarves in their company. A few of the Company had taken the clothing Bilbo offered, such as Nori, Ori, Dori, Bofur, and Thorin. But several had chosen not to, simply more comfortable in their own clothes. Dwalin, of course, was too tall and too stout for any hobbit clothing to attire. He was standing surrounded by a gaggle of teenage hobbit girls, who were shyly attempting to gain his attention. The expression that would have seemed utterly closed to the young hobbits was now readable to Bilbo, having spent so long in Dwalin’s company. There was embarrassment, and also a deeply uncomfortable cast to his limbs as he held himself stiff, resisting the hobbits’ attempts to pull him closer. Bilbo looked opposite Dwalin and saw part of the reason for the warrior dwarf’s discomfort. There, standing a distance away, but still close enough to intimidate, stood a great force of parents, staring in uncertain disapproval at Dwalin and his unintended group of suitors.

Finally, Balin rescued him and brought him to the ale tent, where the fierce looking dwarf began to outdrink some of the most seasoned hobbits. Very soon, there appeared to be a kind of drinking contest in the making. 

Bilbo tried to help where he could, but found himself shooed away more often than not. Finally, he saw through the crowd one of his cousins, whom he called desperately to. “Primula!” 

She turned at his call and rushed to him, her smile infectious. As she embraced him, Bilbo was surprised at the touch of her stomach, hard and round against his front. He stepped back and gasped at her. “I had no idea!” Bilbo smiled and congratulated her as she flushed. 

“Drogo’s over there at the tent, but I’m sticking with some of the berry cordials. I can’t hold with any ale these days!” She said with a laugh, rubbing her stomach tenderly. Bilbo stared at her stomach, his face caught in a longing expression. “Would you like to feel? He was moving so strongly a moment ago...” 

Primula caught his hand in her own and placed it on her stomach, clasping their hands together on her gown. A firm kick displaced their hands and they laughed together. “When are you expecting?” 

Primula smiled fondly. “About a month yet, but believe me, Bilbo, it feels like he could be ready any day now! Drogo and I have already decided on a name if it is indeed a boy.”

Bilbo found Thorin in the crowd, making his way over to Bilbo amidst the sea of congratulators and well-wishers, who were now all well into their festive drink. “And?”

“Frodo, Frodo Baggins. Isn’t it wonderful, Bilbo? Oh just think, you’re going to be an uncle! Won’t that be grand?” 

Bilbo smiled at her and embraced her again. Thorin was by his side when they separated and his arm wound around Bilbo’s waist. “I can’t wait to meet the lad. You’ll write, won’t you, when he’s born?”

“Of course,” she assured him, clasping his hand. Her gaze fell on Thorin and for a moment she assessed him, her expression neutral before she smiled again. “Yes, I see the stories really are true!”

“Stories?” Bilbo asked, apprehensively, sharing a glance with Thorin.

“That Bilbo Baggins is marrying a King, and a Dwarf at that!” Primula made to curtsy, but Thorin stopped her gently.

“I am a guest here, and merely want to wed my beloved.” Bilbo went red at this declaration and Primula shared a smirk with Thorin. 

“As you wish, Thorin,” she responded, her eyes twinkling. She gave a small ‘oof’ and patted the side of her stomach. Thorin’s gaze was drawn downward and a smile lit his face. Before Bilbo could even ask, Primula had taken Thorin’s hand and pressed it to her belly. 

Bilbo watched Thorin’s face light up with quiet joy as the Primula’s child moved beneath his hand. When he straightened from his knees, having knelt to get closer, Thorin kissed the back of Primula’s hand. “You have _khiduzur ghivasha_. I am glad for your children,” Thorin said, offering an honest smile to Bilbo’s cousin.

A sudden thought struck Bilbo and he cursed himself inwardly. He smiled at Primula and leaned in to hug her, whispering quickly in her ear while Thorin was occupied with some distantly related Took cousin. “Primula, I forgot a very important gift beneath my pillow in Bag End, do you think you could send Drogo to fetch it? I need it for the ceremony,” he pleaded, a flutter of panic in his stomach. Primula patted his back and said loudly, “Aye, we’ve all been waiting on Bachelor Baggins to settle down.” More quietly, she replied, “I’ll send him soon as I find him, Bilbo, not to fret!” Thorin turned back to them and Primula quickly made her farewells. She went to find her husband, greeting those she passed. Bilbo turned to Thorin, placing his hands on the front of Thorin’s shirt. “ _Khiduzur ghivasha_ ,” Bilbo said after a moment, attempting to distract himself from the task he’d set to Primula and Drogo.

Thorin stared down at him, his gaze intimate. “Do you know that that means, _melekûnuh_?” Bilbo shook his head.

“You said it to me, once, in Rivendell. What does it mean?” Thorin drew a hand through Bilbo’s hair, ignoring the small attention they had begun to draw.

“Golden treasure. For that is what you are, Bilbo. And what your cousin carries within her. Something precious, something found only once, and only if you are very, very lucky.” Thorin leaned forward and captured Bilbo’s mouth, his tongue tangling with Bilbo’s. He had just begun to draw Bilbo closer when the cheers and banging of utensils on glasses made them separate. Bilbo’s cheeks were burning at the attention of the hobbits around them.

“A tradition?” Thorin asked after the noise had subsided, slightly breathless. Bilbo nodded in reply, giving a cough. He glanced toward the tree and saw that a small aisle had been formed, lined with lanterns and more flowers. At the base of the tree, on a small, natural dais stood Gandalf, looking as wizardly as ever in his long robe and bushy beard. The afternoon passed slowly, with many toasts and games for the young hobbits (which both Bofur and Ori were coerced into joining), and an abundance of food, which seemed to keep arriving. The field had continued to fill until the sun had begun to set, and now that the night had truly begun, music and drink flowed in equal turn, and all present were gay with one another.

A resounding quake that seemed to fill all their bones made everyone quiet, looking round for the source. There, at the top of the hill, stood Gandalf, staff in hand, his expression beginning to be impatient. The wizard walked to the dais and stood at the head of the aisle, where he beckoned to Bilbo and Thorin. The entire field gradually turned to witness, coming closer and pressing one another to get a better look at the beginning ceremony. Thorin walked up the aisle to Gandalf, stepping to one side and waiting, gazing back at Bilbo. 

He had no one to walk with him down that aisle, which now seemed so long, but the encouraging gaze of the hobbits he loved and the dwarves he cherished gave him strength. Someone, Primula, passed him the box he’d forgotten at his hole. He whispered gratitude to her and turned back to the aisle, now lined with his kin. Though in reality it could not have taken more than ten seconds to reach the base of the tree, the journey felt as long as a year. All the moments of his journey until that moment flooded him, and he felt himself wanting to run to the dais, throw all else away to embrace the one waiting for him. 

He controlled himself with a titanic effort, walking sedately down the aisle, head held high. The appreciative murmur of the crowd followed him as he moved between them. A gentle hush fell over the entire gathering as Gandalf stepped forward beside Thorin. As Bilbo reached them, Gandalf held out his hand to Bilbo and with the other, raised Thorin’s in preparation. 

Bilbo gave his hand, shaking, to Gandalf, taking calm from the wizard’s peaceful motions. With great care, Gandalf placed Bilbo’s hand in Thorin’s, then wound a length of ivy about their joined hands. Bilbo stared, in awe of himself, of his own audacity, and of Thorin’s commitment. The sight of the traditional vines wound around their wrists filled him with the most indescribable light.

“Wedded love,” Gandalf began, interrupting Bilbo’s thoughts. “One can live eternity without finding it. Only in those adventurous and brave enough to seek it out may we find our match. Fidelity, and determination; the foundation of the greatest commitment any being may engage in. These two before you have proven through trials of life and death the depth of their affection for one another. Thorin Oakenshield, descendent of Durin the Deathless and King Under the Mountain in the Kingdom of Erebor, this day has given himself to bind, until death, to Bilbo Baggins, born of the Shire. Here, this day, we all have come to bear witness to their union. If any judge the devotion here met, speak now, or forever hold your peace.” Gandalf paused, his gaze thunderous as he searched the crowd. No one dared move, or even breathe. Finally the moment passed, and Gandalf continued. For Bilbo, the words drifted into soft murmurs, caught in the joy of Thorin’s gaze. The dwarf was smiling, truly, his other hand wrapped around their clasped hands. Bilbo took Thorin’s other hand, turning to face him fully. Gandalf finished his speech above them with a firm declaration, then looked down upon them. 

“Bilbo?” Gandalf paused as Bilbo withdrew a small box from within his waistcoat. He opened the box and gently took the ring within. It gleamed bright silver, and Thorin’s eyes shone as Bilbo pressed it upon his finger. Although it could not match the beauty that Thorin had wrought especially for Bilbo’s hand, it was an heirloom of his family, a gift from a ranger many generations past, or so he had been told. It was set with a deep blue stone which matched Thorin’s eyes perfectly.

“I pronounce you joined forever in all lands, until eternity has parted you and after!” Gandalf threw up his hands and a brilliant shower of gold and silver stars shone in the sky above them, falling gently over all those gathered in the field.

A tremendous cheer flooded the celebration, but neither Thorin nor Bilbo heard it. Wound together, they took joy in one another again and again. Thorin’s crown caught in Bilbo’s fingers as he ran his hands through Thorin’s hair. Bilbo gently unwound the crown and wove it into a small sphere, taking the ivy from their wrists slowly and weaving that in as well. He stepped down the dais, towards the group, Thorin’s hand still wound in his own. Instantly, a massive group of female hobbits migrated to the front of the gathering.

Bilbo turned his back to the hobbits and smiled at Thorin, who watched with interest what he did next. Bilbo leaned forward and then, with all the strength he could muster, tossed the ball of ivy and flowers over his shoulder, high into the air. The beautiful remnant of Thorin’s crown and their wedding bonds came tumbling through the night sky into the midst of the group. A moment later, after an intense struggle, one young female hobbit stood tall, victorious, waving the ball back and forth at all those around her. 

Thorin shook his head as the hobbits turned back to the all important business of eating and drinking. Nearly all their company was doing the same. Dwalin, Oin, and Gloin sat with Balin, who was discussing something of importance with a group of elder hobbits, who stroked their chins contemplatively at what Balin said to them. Bifur and Bofur were surrounded by ecstatic hobbit children, who were marveling at the array of toys the two dwarves had made and were passing out to as many children as they could. Somewhere amidst a group of well stomached hobbits sat Bombur, on one of the more reinforced chairs. He had certainly met his match with some of the well known eaters of the Shire, but seemed quite happy to keep pace with them in both food and conversation. Ori, Dori and Nori had kept in the same general area, but were all engaged separately. Dori looked less grumpy than usual, partly due to the splendid wine an aged hobbitess kept pouring for him. Nori looked at ease in the crowd, but still kept a respectful air about him every time Dori glanced his way. Ori was sitting in the midst of a group of younger hobbits, who were gently teasing the scribe for drawing even at a celebration. Their teasing turned quickly to admiration as they glanced over the expanse of his journal, and soon, Ori was surrounded by excited, demanding teenage hobbits, all desiring their portrait to be drawn by such a wonderful scribe. 

Bilbo smiled at the sight of their Company together and snatched a cup of mead from a passing tray of mugs. He pressed the cup into Thorin’s hand, taking joy in Thorin’s pleased expression. The dwarf drained the mug easily, then set it down on a nearby table. 

Bilbo stood before Thorin for a moment, then let out a nonsensical sentence which Thorin smiled to hear. He finally interrupted his newly made husband with a gentle kiss. 

“Shall we retire, _melekûnuh_?” Thorin asked, his voice dark. Bilbo flushed and glanced about them. 

“We should make our rounds...” Bilbo said uncertainly, not really wanting to do so. Thorin’s fingers twining between his own made his mind in an instant. “I would like nothing more, Thorin.” 

Thorin smiled, his teeth gleaming in the light from the lanterns. In that moment, he looked purely predatory. Bilbo’s skin prickled in anticipation as Thorin gently tugged him from the crowd.

They were stopped only a few times by close relatives, and once by Gandalf, who wished them well (with an insinuating smile beneath his beard). The walk up to Bag End was quiet, broken only by the quiet songs of night birds. Thorin’s hand flexed around Bilbo’s and he found himself panting to keep up with Thorin’s pace.

All at once, he realized that he was not the only one who had been deprived of passion for near upon a month. His mouth dry and his trousers beginning to be rather snug, Bilbo found it easier to keep pace alongside his husband with these new thoughts propelling him. 

The instant they crossed the threshold of the yard, Thorin swept Bilbo into his arms, carrying across the lawn to the door, which he kicked open. Bilbo protested faintly but was silenced as Thorin closed the door and pressed him against it. He made a faint noise of satisfaction as Thorin’s hand pressed their bodies tight together. Thorin made a sound like a growl, and Bilbo let out a snort of laughter which quickly became a soft moan as Thorin put a well-placed knee between Bilbo’s legs. Bilbo pulled back, gasping for air as Thorin ravaged his throat.

“We should- the others-” 

“Will not return tonight. They have already agreed,” Thorin managed between kisses. 

“Thorin! You made them - so we could-?” Bilbo gasped, both indignant and incredibly aroused. 

“Yes,” Thorin responded, utterly blunt. He freed himself from Bilbo, tugging his husband toward the master bedroom. 

As the door shut behind them, Bilbo wondered for a moment if Thorin truly felt such emotional passion for him, or if it were merely physical. Then Thorin turned to him, and some of the fire  he had displayed only a second before had faded. A slight flush lay across his cheeks as he drew Bilbo to him, his touch gentle. “Forgive my haste, Bilbo. I fear I have the blood of my people in me when I think of you this night.” 

Thorin gently stroked his hand across Bilbo’s shoulder to cup the back of his head, their foreheads just touching. Bilbo stilled, not wanting to disturb the moment. Eventually, his trepidation cleared and Bilbo took Thorin’s face in his hands, a lightness filling him at the sight of Thorin’s ring upon his finger. Thorin was a dwarf, and possessed of Dwarvish urges. He should have recalled the intense, possessive desire that afflicted newly wed dwarves; Thorin had said as much in regards to the tradition of refraining from one’s intended. It was not that his physical passion negated his emotions, but that his emotions inflamed his physical urges. It both thrilled and unnerved him that his husband had such instinctual needs.

A moment of understanding passed between them and Thorin leaned forward, bringing his other hand up to stroke across Bilbo’s cheek.“Husband,” he said, looping an arm behind Bilbo. His mouth lingered just above Bilbo’s, the excited gasp that met him bearing heat through his entire being. “ _My_ burglar.” 

Bilbo tilted his face towards him and Thorin found himself pleasantly surprised at the intensity of his kiss. Another jolt of heat met him as he felt fingers twining through his hair. Then Bilbo seemed to catch onto Thorin’s badly hidden desire and they were suddenly pressing and clutching at one another again, stroking down the other’s back, luxuriating in the touch of skin and the soft exchange of breath.

Bilbo pulled back under the roar of Thorin’s affections, his expression dazed and pleased. However, he felt he could not go on without voicing his earlier feeling to his beloved. “I did not know,” he admitted quietly, breathless, “that you could hold such feeling for someone like me. I worried...”

“Forgive me my carelessness. You are the only one I wish to express these emotions to,” Thorin told him heatedly, enjoying the solidity of Bilbo in his arms. “The lust to hold and be one with a partner is stronger, sometimes, even than the lust for gold. It is easy to be overcome. But I will not allow myself to be taken by greed again.” Thorin touched the raised scars at Bilbo’s chest. “My idiocy was nearly your undoing. It is no small honor that you found enough affection for _me_ to regard me as you do.” Bilbo winced as Thorin pressed him closer and he drew back, chagrined. Bilbo gripped at Thorin, halting his retreat.

“No, Thorin, it’s your vest that discomforts me, not your words,” Bilbo promised, his hand touching the puffed edge of a scar upon Thorin’s brow. 

“That is easily remedied,” he replied, relieved, releasing Bilbo reluctantly. He stepped back from his hobbit - _his_ \- and shed his vest, not missing the dark of Bilbo’s gaze. He realized what Bilbo meant as he heard the rather large, ornate buttons that decorated the front of the vest thud heavily into the floor. Next he drew off his belt, then worked at the delicate buttons of the simple shirt. He let it fall to the ground next to his vets, noting with pleasure that Bilbo had taken it upon himself to remove his own waistcoat.

“Come here,” Bilbo demanded, striding toward Thorin, face determined. “There’s no need for majesty, here, I should think.” He muttered, hands finding Thorin’s chest. He shuddered as the hobbit traced the lattice of scars across his sternum. 

Thorin tilted his head under Bilbo’s, urging his face up, all the better to be kissed. The bed loomed before them and Thorin paused in his ministrations. Bilbo panted for a moment before understanding.

“Oh- I...” he trailed into silence, his ears flaming red. Thorin smiled at Bilbo’s sense of propriety, even after so long in his Company. “We don’t have to,” Bilbo said mulishly, though Thorin easily heard the disappointment.

“I only wanted to hear you state your desire, Bilbo. I would not coerce you into any act you find displeasing.” Thorin tucked a stray curl behind Bilbo’s still-pink ear, then stroked his hand back into the hobbit’s hair.

“I don’t know what I’m to say,” Bilbo began, his fingers curling. 

“What do you wish of me, Bilbo Baggins? I am yours at last.” Thorin smiled at Bilbo, his heart thundering. He had never been more sure of himself than he was now. His future waited before him, and Thorin would gladly rush to it.

“As I am yours,” Bilbo whispered, meeting Thorin’s gaze. 

The acceptance was enough, and the pride in his heart blazed greater as they met one another. Together they laid upon the bed, laughing as Thorin tugged out an irritatingly small pillow from its decorative set beneath his back. Bilbo smiled at the dwarven king, combing his fingers through Thorin’s hair. His thick braids draped over Bilbo’s chest, the darkness of his hair sharp in contrast with Bilbo’s scarred flesh.

The same deep sense of right, of possession and belonging filled him and Thorin pressed closer. Bilbo coyly slipped his leg beneath Thorin’s knee. Thorin whipped his head up, hardly daring to believe what he was offered. Bilbo looked mischievously at him and Thorin let out a pleased growl as he shifted between the burglar’s thighs. Bilbo pressed his knees to Thorin’s ribs, circling his pelvis wickedly against Thorin. He let out a deep, shaking breath and stroked Bilbo’s back encouragingly.

He had not expected such voracity from the innocent looking hobbit. Yet he knew Bilbo’s nature, and could not have been more pleased with the outcome. Bilbo kissed his neck lovingly, his cheek rubbing against Thorin’s beard. Thorin sighed and laid his head atop Bilbo’s, rocking his hips down to offer Bilbo his gratitude. 

Bilbo let out a high, sweet sound that had his face bright red in an instant. Thorin grinned into a pillow and innocently twisted his hips in the same fashion, his own need mounting as Bilbo grew obviously engaged against him.

“Please,” Bilbo gasped, catching at the hem of his shirt. The green fabric was darkened even more by the heat of Bilbo’s arousal, and Thorin gladly removed it, lifting Bilbo’s shoulders with his arm. Thorin pulled away, kissing Bilbo on the mouth for a moment before moving to touch his lips to a bared shoulder, then lower. Bilbo was not nearly as furred as Thorin himself and his stomach was a shade softer than his own; he reveled in the simple beauty of his lover. Thorin pressed a loving kiss to Bilbo’s chest, nipping swiftly at each of his nipples before moving between Bilbo’s thighs, his wide shoulders lifting Bilbo’s legs apart. 

Bilbo’s need lay hot and red against his stomach and Thorin glanced surreptitiously at Bilbo’s face. “- you,” the hobbit cried as Thorin grinned, licking down his bared shaft with unnecessary greed.

“I wish to have all of you,” Thorin growled, sucking a mark at Bilbo’s hip, inside his thigh, his beard brushing over sensitive genitals. 

“By all means,” Bilbo choked out, twisting the sheets in ecstatic rapture above Thorin. Thorin kissed down the length of Bilbo’s leg, then slipped off the bed, stumbling awkwardly toward his pack, still shoved in the corner of the room. Inside a discrete, inner pocket, he drew forth a small vial of viscous liquid, then hurried back to Bilbo, who watched him lazily. The lust in Bilbo’s half-lidded eyes sparked something dangerous in Thorin. 

Thorin slid one knee onto the bed, the mattress dipping slightly. “Would you have me? Or may I have the honor?” Thorin showed Bilbo the bottle, waiting. Bilbo sat up carefully, completely uncaring for modesty now. 

“I have never.... I would you, alone, to have me thus. And the other, perhaps... in future?” Thorin nodded, ever aware of Bilbo’s previously weakened state by the raised scars across his front. Bilbo laid back against the sheets, watching curiously as Thorin uncorked the vial. 

“It will help, and one can never have too little,” Thorin advised Bilbo, wryly noting the return of his blushing ears. 

“What is- oh,” Bilbo gasped, squirming a little as Thorin gently slipped a hand between his legs. 

“You must never be silent with me, Bilbo,” Thorin urged, his fingers stroking Bilbo at a growing pace. Bilbo’s hips jerked beneath Thorin’s ministrations, his breath coming in gasps. “I would know what gives you pleasure,” he growled, kissing Bilbo’s hip before taking the hobbit in his mouth. Bilbo pushed wildly against the feeling, and Thorin pressed a gentle hand to Bilbo’s pelvis, keeping himself from being choked.

“Sorry, I-” Bilbo began, before crying out once more. Thorin shook his head, his hair touching Bilbo’s inner thighs at the turn of his neck. The dwarf gently ran his fingers between the hobbit’s buttocks. Bilbo twitched as Thorin touched him but made no complaint, allowing his body to experience the sensations. Thorin pulled back momentarily to grab the vial of oil again. Bilbo turned his head away, ears burning, stomach tightening with nerves. Thorin settled between his legs, returning to his previous task, letting his hand slide freely over Bilbo’s sensitive skin.

Thorin finally pulled away with a wet sound which made Bilbo’s ears burn, his legs shakily falling apart from their unconscious grip of Thorin’s shoulders. 

Thorin looked up, noticing Bilbo’s tense expression. He pressed a fond kiss to Bilbo’s knee. “Relax, _melekûnuh_. I’ve only just begun to prove my love.” Thorin smiled at Bilbo’s anticipation. His right hand continued to draw lazy lines between Bilbo’s legs, moving back and pressing harder with each stroke. 

“Come,” Thorin urged him, gently turning Bilbo onto his stomach, pulling him until he knelt on all fours. Bilbo grabbed a pillow from the head of the bed, cushioning his head and arms. Thorin smiled darkly as Bilbo turned his head to watch what he did. Thorin knelt behind Bilbo, pressing his clothed need against Bilbo’s slick skin. He drew back and slicked his hand between Bilbo’s buttocks. 

Bilbo’s head came up and he glanced at Thorin; the dwarven king gazed quietly back at Bilbo, his fingers pressing snug against Bilbo’s entrance. Thorin found no words, but Bilbo seemed to receive his question. The hobbit dropped his head, his muscles relaxing. Thorin smiled as Bilbo tentatively pressed back against his hand. 

Thorin carefully worked his finger inside Bilbo’s untested body. He went slowly, having been long out of practice, and desiring no hurt to come to his lover. He kissed a firm line up Bilbo’s spine as he withdrew his finger, sliding through a particularly oiled patch of skin before slipping back inside. When Thorin deemed him ready, Bilbo giving no signs of pain, he gently introduced a second finger, watching Bilbo like a hawk. Tension had begun to gather in Bilbo’s shoulders and Thorin ran his free hand over Bilbo’s hunched form, stilling his fingers as he did so.

He leaned closer and pressed kisses to Bilbo’s cheek, doing his best to ignore his own increasing desire. “How do you fare, Bilbo? Does this suit you?” 

Bilbo turned his head to look at Thorin, his mouth opening to speak. A sudden groan came from the hobbit, surprising them both. Thorin smiled at Bilbo and kissed away Bilbo’s stunned expression. He crooked his fingers as he had, watching with pleasure the slow arch of Bilbo’s back and the tilt of his hips against Thorin’s hand. Bilbo panted as Thorin carefully spread his fingers, slotting a third into the gap between. Bilbo’s fist tightened on the sheets, but he remained pliant and soft to Thorin’s touches. He withdrew his fingers a while later, unable to further delay their joining. 

Bilbo went easily onto his back, smiling at Thorin’s ungraceful struggle to separate from his unfamiliar trousers and smallclothes. Thorin finally lay bare to him and Bilbo couldn’t help the race of heat to his face at seeing the King under the Mountain so exposed. 

Thorin crooked a smile at Bilbo, the tone in his voice unlike anything Bilbo had heard from him yet. “Do I please you?”

“You’re about to,” Bilbo shot back, biting his lip at his own audacity. Thorin stared at him for a second before he chuckled, kneeling upon the bed. 

“Indeed," Thorin said, allowing his lust to color his words. He lowered himself to Bilbo’s awaiting arms, letting out a low oath in Khuzdûl at the feel of their skin pressed together. Bilbo trailed a hand down Thorin’s back, his arms wrapped loosely around the dwarf. 

Thorin reached between them, pressing them together and slicking himself with the oil covering Bilbo. He searched with one hand for a moment before Bilbo passed him the nearly empty vial. Thorin could only nod his thanks, his words quickly leaving him as he drew back enough to slide his need against Bilbo’s oiled entrance. Never forgetting Bilbo’s comfort, he pressed another smear of oil into his lover, enjoying the low, rapturous moan that greeted his intrusion. He upended the vial over his own length, gritting his teeth as he ran a hand down his shaft. He felt near ready to explode. 

Bilbo’s hands clutched at his sides and Thorin looked up into warm, assuring brown eyes. He glanced down to right his angle before slowly guiding himself into Bilbo, watching his hobbit’s face each second of his penetration. It was maddening to enter and withdraw, pressing closer with each push, but Bilbo’s reactions were well worth the delay. Long minutes later, their hips met, startling them both. Thorin lowered himself until their chests met, breathing heavily in exertion. 

Bilbo, on the other hand, lay beneath Thorin, panting and gritting his teeth in turn, worried at the conflicted sensations. There was a strange, small ache within him that he surmised came from Thorin’s thickness, but no true pain. He had been worried (he’d heard the horror stories from the other hobbits about the rough Men who engaged in such acts and the pains it brought) of the result of lying with Thorin, but the dwarf had taken such care for his needs he knew these tales to be caused by careless lovers. There was another feeling he could not quite define. It was a feeling, he realized, akin to eating a delicious, fresh-baked roll, or smoking well-aged Old Toby. It was not exactly like lightning pleasure, as he’d heard romantic hobbittesses wax on about, but ultimately was more deeply addicting. It was a sensation he wanted to feel over and over; he longed to feel the smooth, inexorable slide of Thorin’s length, the firm press of the dwarf’s hips against his own. He felt himself leaking against Thorin’s stomach and flushed a deeper red, his muscles flexing for an instant. 

“Oh!” Bilbo yelped, stilling beneath Thorin. Thorin was hovering over him in an instant, his blue eyes wide with concern. 

“Are you well? Shall I withdraw?” Bilbo clutched at Thorin, digging his heels into the king’s backside. 

“No! Er- no. No. It’s - ah. That.” He tightened his muscles again, licking suddenly dry lips as the sensation returned. Thorin’s eyes gleamed at him, his knuckles white in the sheets by Bilbo’s shoulders. “Is it well?” Thorin asked, his voice tight. 

“Very,” Bilbo managed, twisting his pelvis experimentally. Thorin’s head came down, his forehead braced against Bilbo’s chest. Bilbo heard his breath coming in deep pants, a low sound escaping him. The first true thrust startled him with its depth. The second took his breath away, Thorin’s hips meeting his with a small sound at the same moment he tightened his muscles once more. 

“Bilbo,” Thorin gasped, the abused sheets in his grasp straining in protest. He cursed in Khuzdûl, the deep, grating sounds adding to Bilbo’s excitement.

“- that, there!” Bilbo gripped Thorin tightly between his knees, feeling as if he were guiding a wild stallion. Thorin swung his hips in a wide arc, his pace steadily increasing at Bilbo’s encouragement. 

“ _Ubzar_?” Thorin asked a moment later, his eyes dark and wide, his breath fast. “Deeper?” 

Bilbo nodded fervently, understanding. He had not expected Thorin to forgo the Common Tongue so easily when he was thus aroused. His nails dug into Thorin’s back as Thorin pushed his thigh higher, driving in close.

For long minutes they strove together, meeting slick and panting with equal exertion. Thorin felt his arrival, looming in the not so far future. He ground his hips against Bilbo, giving the hobbit something hard to press against. Bilbo did so, shameless now under Thorin’s watchful gaze, his brown eyes near black with lust. Thorin brought his knees under him, taking Bilbo’s hips in his hands. Thorin gave note to Bilbo’s cry of pleasure as he drove into the hobbit, holding Bilbo’s hips still as he penetrated him. Bilbo was gasping for breath when Thorin finally took him in hand. Bilbo cursed, surprising Thorin even as it lent him greater desire. Bilbo arched nearly off the bed, his hands scrabbling at Thorin’s arms, gripping the muscles there as he spent himself. Thorin pushed hard into Bilbo then, lying full upon the hobbit, his kisses fierce against Bilbo’s throat.  Not a minute later he stilled within his lover, a long call escaping him before Bilbo pulled his face down to capture him in a kiss. 

Thorin pulled away to draw in a much needed breath. He reached between them, ignoring the rapidly cooling slick of their bodies as he carefully withdrew from Bilbo. A soft mumble was his only reply; Thorin turned onto his side, drawing Bilbo partly onto his chest, running a shaking hand over Bilbo’s gleaming skin. 

A long moment passed in breathless quiet before Thorin grinned. “Have I pleased you?” 

“I could not have asked for a better partner,” he said softly, reaching up to stroke Thorin’s brow. “I’m merely stiff and a bit sore.” Thorin nodded.

“That is to be expected when one begins a new exercise. It merely means one must have more practice.” Bilbo looked up at Thorin, narrowing his eyes at the dwarf’s carefully neutral expression. 

Thorin opened his mouth and Bilbo countered him before he could speak. “Tomorrow.”

“An hour.” Thorin shot back, thinking over the deep bath he’d used the night before.

“Three hours.” Bilbo wriggled out of Thorin’s slightly sticky grip, grimacing as their skin made a slight sound. 

“Two,” Thorin pleaded, catching Bilbo’s hand in his own. Bilbo paused and Thorin watched him think hopefully.

“.... and supper?” Bilbo ceded, noting how swiftly his hunger came upon him.

“And supper,” Thorin agreed.

Thorin kissed Bilbo thoroughly before whispering in his lover’s ear, running a hand over his sore arse. “And then perhaps _you_ will have _me_.” Thorin laid back and said nothing to Bilbo’s flaming expression, his own face wickedly content. Bilbo, smeared with oil and sweat, muttered to himself until Thorin thoroughly kissed away his protests and sweetly decanted the joys of Dwarvish cuisine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> melekûn - hobbit  
> melekûnuh - my hobbit  
> khiduzur ghivasha - golden treasure  
> achrâchi gabilul - I'm sorry (literally, 'it pains me greatly')  
> ubzar - deeper
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>  
> 
> All words/phrases are taken from 'durinsfolk' on scribd.com; they have a WONDERFUL (Neo-)Khuzdul dictionary there, as well as transcripts from lessons which I believe are on youtube. All credit for the language I use here goes to them!
> 
>  
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> \-----
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> [\Come see me on tumblr!](http://www.opheliajane.tumblr.com/)


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